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CHRISTIAN  THOUGHT  ON  LIFE. 


CHRISTIAN  THOUGHT 


ON  LIFE. 


IN    A    SERIES    OF    DISCOURSES. 


BY 


HENRY    GILES, 

AUTHOR  OF  "LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS." 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,   REED,    AND    FIELDS. 

MDCCCL. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  l»y 

TICKXOR,    REED,    AND   FIELDS, 
In  the  Clork'i  Office  of  thn  District  Court  of  the  Distiict  of  Masgachusntis. 


BOSTON: 

THURSTOX,  TORRY  4    COMPANY,   PRINTERS, 
DEVONSHIRE   STRIKT- 


PREFACE. 

THESE  Discourses  were  not  written  in  pastoral  relations, 
or  for  pastoral  purposes.  The  general  intention  which  gov- 
erned in  the  composition  of  the  greater  number,  was  to 
gather  into  compact  form,  fragments  of  moral  experience, 
and  to  give  some  record  and  some  order  to  desultory  studies 
of  man's  interior  life.  The  author,  therefore,  not  pressed  by 
occasions  which  compel  brevity,  followed  as  he  was  moved 
the  promptings  of  his  feelings  and  his  theme.  Thus  much 
the  author  ventures  to  advance  as  an  apology  for  their  length, 
beyond  the  measure  commonly  allowed  to  sermons. 

BOSTON,  JULY  1,  1850. 


CONTENTS. 

THE  WORTH  OF  LIFE  .....         1 

THE  PERSONALITY  OF  LIFE  ...  22 

THE  CONTINUITY  OF  LIFE      .  .  .  .46 

THE  STRUGGLE  OF  LIFE     ....  70 

THE  DISCIPLINE  OF  LIFE         .  .  ...       92 

PRAYER  AND  PASSION  .  .  .  115 

TEMPER  .  .  .  .  .  .134 

THE  GUILT  OF  CONTEMPT  .  .  .  154 

EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS  ....     174 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS  .  .  195 

DAVID:  SPIRITUAL  INCONGRUITIES       .  .  .218 

WEARINESS  OF  LIFE  ....          245 

MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE  .  267 


CHRISTIAN  THOUGHT  ON  LIFE. 


THE  WORTH  OF  LIFE. 


JAMES,  iv.  4. 

FOE     WHAT     IS     YOUR     LIFE  1 

COMPLAINTS  of  the  world  and  of  life  we  often  hear, 
even  from  those  who  have  no  rugged  portion  in  both 
the  world  and  life.  The  world  is  good  ;  for  it  is  God's 
world,  made  by  his  power,  fashioned  by  his  wisdom, 
and  fitted  by  his  bounty  for  many  precious  uses.  The 
world  is  good,  for  it  is  man's  world,  the  first  home  of 
his  being,  and  the  school  of  his  destiny.  Life  is  also 
good  ;  for  it  is  God's  life,  derived  from  his  spirit  and 
educated  by  his  Providence,  and  formed  for  an  existence 
imperishable  and  progressive.  Life  is  good  ;  for  it  is 
man's  life,  mighty  in  its  capacities,  mighty  in  purposes, 
and  endowed  with  tender  and  sublime  affections,  great 
in  their  cultivation,  and  great  in  their  exercise. 
1 


<S  THE   WORTH   OF   LIFE. 

The  ascetic  view  of  life  is,  in  its  own  way,  as  wrong 
as  the  sensual.  The  ascetic  imagines  that  he  can  gain 
the  future  by  despising  the  present.  The  sensualist 
fancies  that  he  secures  the  present  by  contempt  for  the 
future.  Each  commits  a  radical  mistake  ;  each  makes 
a  partial  estimate  of  life,  and  each  in  his  error  narrows 
and  impoverishes  it.  The  present  contains  the  future, 
for  the  future  is  but  the  present  that  is  to  come  ;  the 
future  contains  the  present,  for  the  future  will  be  but  a 
modification  of  what  the  present  has  been.  Let  ours 
be  the  Christian  view  of  life  ;  in  which  both  the  present 
and  future  are  discerned  to  be  but  one  life,  —  one  in 
essence  and  one  in  interest  And  according  to  this,  by 
its  light  and  teachings,  let  us  proceed  to  inquire  the 
value  of  life. 

Life  is  a  great  fact.  We  live.  Here  is  a  momen- 
tous verity.  Most  mysterious,  and  yet  most  real,  is 
this  solemn  now.  We  live,  and  some  few  years  since, 
we  were  not.  Out  of  the  dread,  dark,  speechless  abyss 
of  possibilities,  we  have  come  to  be  among  the  things 
which  are  to  move,  to  breathe.  Before  us  lies  the 
immense  unknown,  and  deep  silence  is  its  covering. 
We  live,  and  in  that,  is  profound  import :  we  feel,  we 
think,  we  act.  We  have  senses  ;  we  hear,  see ;  we 
have  affections  ;  we  have  passions ;  we  love,  we  ask  for 
love,  we  desire,  we  hope,  we  fear,  we  are  angry,  we 


THE   WORTH   OF    LIFE.  3 

are  pleased,  we  grieve,  we  are  glad  ;  we  have  intellect ; 
we  apprehend,  we  speculate,  we  remember,  we  reason, 
we  believe,  we  imagine  ;  we  see  visions,  and  we  dream 
dreams.  We  have  conscience,  we  are  formed  for 
enjoyment  in  virtue,  and  not  less  for  misery  in  sin. 
We  have  religious  sentiment :  we  seek  for  God,  we 
trust,  we  reverence,  we  worship  ;  we  have  withal  the 
faculty  of  doing ;  we  translate  ideas  into  deeds  ;  cause 
will  to  come  forth  in  power,  and  power  to  exist  in 
results. 

What  a  sacred  thing  in  its  completeness,  is  an  hour 
of  human  life,  containing,  as  it  seems,  the  elements  of 
all  other  life.  Mere  sensation  is  grateful,  and  to  feel 
being  even  in  that,  is  a  privilege.  To  breathe  the  air, 
to  look  upon  the  light,  to  hear  the  voice  of  nature  in  her 
countless  tones,  to  rest  upon  her  fragrant  lap,  and  to  be 
conscious  of  a  beating  pulse,  this,  low  as  it  seems,  is 
not  unworthy  of  desire.  But  when  existence  is  glori- 
fied with  the  perception  of  beauty,  with  the  sentiment 
of  grandeur,  with  the  radiance  of  fancy,  with  the 
graces  of  culture  ;  when  it  is  cheered  by  the  warmth  of 
friendship,  by  the  sweetness  of  affection  ;  by  the  as- 
sociations of  memory  ;  by  all  that  stirs  within  a  kindred 
and  a  loving  humanity;  when  it  is  sanctified,  moreover, 
by  the  sacred  convictions  of  religion,  it  is  of  worth 
unutterable. 


4  THE    WORTH    OF    LIFE. 

If  it  is  precious  to  know  existence,  even  in  our 
instincts,  how  excellent  to  know  it  in  our  most  godlike 
capacities.  We  Zn?e,  and  if  our  nature  be  to  any 
extent  active,  vital,  how  vast  is  the  range  of  our  life. 
Our  existence,  to  us  involves  the  existence  of  creation. 
The  present  hour  is  not  to  me  the  hour  of  an  isolated 
being.  It  is  the  hour  of  the  earth  which  bears  me  on 
its  surface.  It  is  the  hour  of  the  heavens  which  stand 
over  me  with  their  unpillared  canopy,  which  enfold 
me  in  an  ocean  of  infinite  glory  and  infinite  light.  It  is 
the  hour  of  all  my  sentient  fellow-creatures,  in  every 
region  -and  every  element,  which  move  with  myself  in 
the  world  of  pleasure  and  of  pain.  It  is  the  hour  of 
my  friends,  to  whom  my  first  sympathies  are  given, 
and  from  whom  sympathies  come  to  me  in  turn.  It 
is  the  hour  of  my  whole  human  brotherhood,  —  with 
every  movement  of  my  heart ;  the  vibrations  of  a 
thousand  millions  keep  time,  and  all  the  mysteries  of 
life  are  within  them,  with  all  the  varieties  of  sorrow 
and  satisfaction.  What  a  worth  is  therefore  even  in 
this  hour,  if  indeed,  it  is  an  hour  of  life,  not  one  of 
apathy,  nor  yet  one  of  confusion.  What  worth,  I  repeat, 
in  a  single  hour  of  true  life  !  The  worth  of  all  that  we 
perceive,  of  all  that  we  feel,  of  the  gracious  earth,  of 
the  blessed  heavens,  of  immeasurable  vitality,  of  loving 
friends,  of  universal  brotherhood.  True,  that  material 


THE    WORTH    OF    LIFE.  5 

things  existed  before  us,  and  without  us.  Once,  they 
were  alone  with  their  God  ;  the  earth  had  no  habitable 
places,  the  sunshine  was  not  glad  in  human  dwellings, 
the  stars  guided  no  mariner  upon  the  seas ;  old  ocean 
roared,  but  no  man  heard,  no  brave  voices  mingled 
with  the  noise  of  waters,  deep  called  unto  deep,  and 
had  only  deep  to  answer.  So  it  was,  before  there  was 
an  Adam,  but  man  was  created,  and  all  things  lived. 
And  these  now  live  to  us,  and  besides  these,  all  which 
the  sons  of  Adam  have  wrought,  language,  learning, 
arts,  cities,  with  their  adornments,  governments  with 
their  laws,  and  whatever  else,  the  contrivance  of  man's 
head  and  the  cunning  of  his  hand  have  enabled  him  to 
do.  Surely,  even  our  present  life  is  sacred,  and  is 
grand. 

I  have  said,  then,  not  untruly,  that  life  is  a  great 
fact.  It  is  also  a  fact  with  great  relations.  Nothing  is 
separate  in  the  creation  or  the  providence  of  God,  all 
things  are  connected,  all  have  reference  to  each  other, 
and  to  the  whole.  No  existence  is  complete  in  itself 
but  One,  which  is  infinite  and  eternal.  Others  have  all 
reference  to  each  other  and  to  that ;  and  the  laws  of 
mind  have  no  less  a  subordination  and  dependence 
than  the  laws  of  matter.  The  present  day  of  our 
intelligent  and  moral  existence,  concentrates  results 
from  our  past  life.  Impressions,  thoughts,  imagina- 


6  THE    WORTH    OF    LIFE. 

tions,  desires,  memories,  pursuits,  studies.  Whatsoever 
entered  into  our  experience,  or  shaped  it,  tended, 
each  in  its  degree,  to  produce  every  moment  of  our 
existence  as  it  comes.  But  the  past,  to  which  our 
present  has  relation,  is  not  confined  within  our  own 
experience,  —  it  goes  back  beyond  history,  it  enters 
into  the  mysterious  era  of  unwritten  revelation.  Modes 
and  habits  which  are  now  unconscious  to  us,  are  crea- 
tures of  centuries.  The  simplest  phrases  of  our  com- 
mon speech,  have  been  ages  in  attaining  their  present 
articulation.  Christian  childhood,  the  Sunday-school, 
ministry  to  the  poor,  numberless  other  phases  of 
life,  have  relation  to  a  cross,  which,  eighteen  hundred 
years  ago,  was  raised  on  Calvary,  in  the  remote  pro- 
vince of  Judea. 

And  thus  it  is  with  the  distant  as  with  the  past. 
Not  only  do  our  relations  of  charity  bind  us  to  all 
regions  of  the  world,  but  even  those  of  covetousness 
and  those  of  comfort.  Wisdom  and  wealth  come  to  us 
from  afar,  and  our  most  ordinary  and  constant  needs, 
many  soils  and  many  regions  contribute  to  supply. 
And,  by  this  law  of  continuity,  the  inevitable  law  of 
our  spiritual  being,  the  moments  in  which  we  now 
exist  are  bound  to  the  future,  and  have  their  influence 
in  determinining  its  character.  What  we  are  to  be,  is 
to  be  decided  by  what  we  have  been  and  by  what  we 


THE    WORTH   OF   LIFE.  7 

are.  So  far  as  the  principles  operate,  which  we  deduce 
from  general  experience,  this  is  our  inference.  These 
laws  of  relationship  belong  to  the  present  life  ;  to  the 
present  day,  the  present  hour.  They  belong  to  the 
being  which  we  now  have.  The  being  which  we  have 
now,  is  that  which  we  can  have  at  any  time.  No  other 
is  to  be  ours,  forever.  Modified  this  may  be,  changed 
in  its  condition  or  its  circumstances,  but  in  spirit  and  in 
essence  it  must  be  the  same  ;  for  the  continuance  of 
the  individual  is  simply  the  identity  of  life.  In  this 
very  hour  even  our  immortality  is  included.  For  what 
is  our  immortality  ?  What  but  the  unfolding  of  that 
being  which  is  already  in  us  ?  Immortality  is  'not 
something  added :  it  is  not  a  thing  separate  from  us  ; 
it  is  in  our  souls ;  it  is  this  moment  in  the  action  of 
every  thought ;  it  is  ours  now,  and  we  have  not  to  wait 
for  it.  The  life  which  we  hold  while  the  minute-hand 
of  a  clock  passes  over  its  smallest  interval,  is  that  life, 
be  it  expanded  how  it  may,  which  eternal  duration  will 
not  exhaust. 

Solemn,  indeed,  are  these  relations  of  our  life  ; 
and  solemn  are  the  objects  and  the  activities  to 
which  they  bind  us.  God  is  the  supreme  object,  in 
whom  and  by  whom  we  are,  in  every  movement  and 
in  every  instant ;  God,  the  beginning  and  supporter  of 
every  being,  the  source  of  existence  and  its  end.  And 


8  THE    WORTH   OF    LIFE. 

then,  how  many  are  our  associations  with  man,  in 
kindred,  in  sympathy,  in  country,  in  species  ;  by  inter- 
change, by  co-operatibn,  by  community  :  community 
of  thought,  community  of  feeling,  community  of  labor. 
What  a  host  of  obligations  are  involved  in  life,  in 
order  to  preserve  the  harmony  of  its  relations  ;  the 
obligation  to  discipline,  to  train  it  into  strength  ;  the 
obligation  to  duty,  which  is  the  law  of  its  perfection ; 
the  obligation  to  work,  which  is  involved  in  both  its 
wants  and  its  capacities,  an  implied  condition  of  its 
existence.  And  this  work  has  no  measure,  but  that  of 
our  sphere  and  that  of  our  power ;  it  begins  with 
capability,  and  only  with  capability  it  concludes. 
When  we  walk  forth  on  earth,  then  begins  our  labor ; 
and  our  toil  is  not  over,  until  that  warning  comes 
which  tells  the  strong,  equally  with  the  feeble,  that 
their  day  is  closed.  The  field  for  some  is  bounded  by 
the  straitened  circle  of  daily  necessity  ;  that  of  others 
embraces  many  regions,  with  a  return  of  good  fruit 
which  will  be  bounty  for  many  ages  ;  but,  large  or 
limited,  our  life  involves  a  work,  and  the  purpose  of 
our  life  is  to  do  it.  We  contract  this  debt  with  life,  and 
we  owe  it  to  all  things  and  beings  :  we  owe  it  for  all 
excellence  and  all  good  ;  we  owe  it  to  the  earth  which 
feeds  us  ;  we  owe  it  to  the  animals  which  help  us ;  we 
owe  it  to  God  and  man  —  to  the  dead  and  to  the  living ; 


THE   WORTH    OF    LIFE.  9 

,'  .-    •  •  *¥••  ''•': 

.      •<.1?~     •   ••.'•;•.-* 

to  the  dead,  into  whose  labors  we  have  entered,  and  to 
the  living,  whose  labors  we  share. 

Connected,  therefore,  with  the  life  which  now  is 
ours,  we  find  the  relations  that  endow  it  with  a  solemn 
grandeur  :  those  relations  with  the  past,  the  distant, 
and  the  future ;  with  our  Creator  and  our  brethren, 
with  goodness  and  with  action  —  those  relations  which 
constitute  *the  dignity  of  beings.  These  all  belong  to 
our  present  life  :  they  are  parts  of  it ;  with  that  which 
is  to  be,  they  are  possible  ;  but  with  that  which  is,  they 
are  actual .  If  there  be  worth  in  these,  then  there  is 
countless  worth  in  every  hour  which  we  fill  with 
the  consciousness  of  a  complete  human  existence. 
And  I  do  not  mean  that  our  whole  being  should  be 
concentred  in  the  hour,  but  merely  that  the  hour  be 
complete  in  itself,  and  be  sufficient  for  any  true  pur- 
pose of  life  ;  then  it  is  the  hour,  not  of  a  passive  clod, 
but  of  a  living  soul. 

Life  is  a  fact  involving  great  results.  What  is  that 
which  has  been  a  power  in  human  concerns,  that 
did  not  come  out  of  the  life  of  man  ?  Take  that  most 
stupendous  life,  or  the  little  fragment  of  it  which  was 
visible  to  the  world  —  that  life  which  has  re-moulded 
society  —  the  life  of  Jesus  Christ,  —  say  whether  it 
was  not  once  a  present,  actual  thing.  Consider  Jesus 
Christ  theologically  as  we  may,  his  influence  upon  life 


10  THE   WORTH   OF   LIFE. 

has  been  in  the  relations  of  humanity.  Miracles  may 
have  startled  sleeping  faculties,  and  called  attention  to 
his  mission  ;  but  it  was  moral  being  made  manifest  in 
action,  that  put  a  quickening  spirit  into  the  gross  and 
dormant  heart  of  our  species.  Miracles  were  but  the 
accidents  of  his  office  :  they  had  no  necessary  connec- 
tion with  the  essence  of  his  character.  This  character, 
as  men  recognise  and  feel  it,  is  the  same  in  its  spiritual 
attributes ;  place  Christ  in  what  order  of  being  they 
choose,  when  once  they  take  him  from  the  sphere  of 
earth. 

I  speak  of  Christ's  character  as  it  was  developed  in 
a  human  life.  Now,  all  that  has  been  since  done  in 
the  world,  and  all  that  is  to  be  done  in  the  world, 
while  it  endures,  by  the  impulse  of  that  life,  were  then 
involved  in  its  passing  deeds  and  speech.  You  know 
what  a  change  has  been  effected  in  humanity  by  the 
influences  of  our  Saviour's  life  ;  you  know  to  what  an 
extent  this  change  has  gone  through  the  earth ;  you 
know  how  profoundly,  how  widely,  how  thoroughly,  it 
has  operated  on  opinion,  on  faith,  on  sentiment,  on 
manners,  on  conduct,  on  worship,  and  on  government. 
You  have  evidence  of  such  before  the  senses,  and 
within  the  heart ;  you  have  evidence  of  such,  in  every 
village  church  which  gleams  through  the  wood,  or 
shines  upon  the  hill ;  you  have  it  in  every  rural  school 


THE    WORTH    OF    LIFE.  11 

where  childhood  finds  reverence  and  instruction ;  you 
have  it  in  the  sanctity  of  humble  homes ;  you  have  it 
in  the  peace  of  Sabhath  congregations  ;  you  have  it  in 
plans  of  mercy ;  you  have  it  in  dispensations  of  char- 
ity, —  in  an  opulence  of  good  works  ;  you  have  it  in 
amelioration  of  laws,  in  the  dissemination  of  freedom ; 
you  have  it  in  the  holy  strength  which  can  bear  suffer- 
ing with  humility,  and  which  can  encounter  death  with 
hope.  And  yet,  the  whole  of  those  mighty  results 
have  flowed  from  a  life  which  was  short  in  years  ;  only 
the  close  of  which  has  been  recorded,  and  even  that 
but  briefly  in  disjointed  memoirs.  A  life  thus  pro- 
lific in  consequences,  was  far  from  the  centre  of  culture 
or  of  power.  Unseen  by  the  studious,  and  unknown  to 
the  great,  it  had  its  converse  mainly  with  the  poor, 
and  its  end  with  the  infamous.  Yet,  see  how  that  life 
has  not  only  ruled  events,  but  converted  souls.  It  has 
regenerated  intellect  and  affections ;  and  of  the  millions 
which  have  been  born  again  by  its  spirit,  of  the  mil- 
lions which  have  had  a  new  creation  by  its  energy, 
each  intellect  has  found  an  aspect  of  it,  original  to  its 
own  view,  an  aspect  its  own,  by  individual  observing 
and  individual  appropriation  ;  each  heart  has  discov- 
ered an  attraction  special  to  its  own  love,  and  to  its 
own  endearment. 

This,  as  I  have  said,  was  once  a  present,  actual,  life 


12  THE    WORTH    OF    LIFE. 

on  earth  ;  a  life  among  men ;  a  life  spent  much  in 
cities,  on  highways,  and  not  inconsiderably  in  a  joiner's 
workshop.  Will  it  be  called  presumption  to  adduce  the 
life  of  Christ  in  connection  with  our  life  ?  If  it  be 
presumption,  it  is  presumption  which  the  apostle  teaches, 
when  he  tells  that  Christ  left  us  an  example  that  we 
should  follow  his  steps.  But  we  think  too  meanly  of 
our  life,  and  thence  its  barrenness.  We  take  a  low 
standard,  thence  the  lowness  of  our  aimings,and  thence, 
the  lowness  of  our  practice. 

The  point  to  which  we  aspire  is  near.  We  have  not 
far  to  rise  or  far  to  fall.  We  live  within  small  dimen- 
sions ;  we  are  seldom  great  either  in  virtue  or  trans- 
gression ;  we  live  too  much  in  self,  and  while  we  do, 
we  must  live  poorly.  We  cannot  live  greatly,  until  we 
get  out  of  this  individual  self.  We  easily  exhaust  it, 
and  then  we  must  plod  round  and  round,  again,  and 
again,  and  again,  —  a  weary  and  monotonous  revolu- 
tion in  the  wretched  slavery  of  habit.  Our  mere  sen- 
sations have  no  distant  limits,  and  we  quickly  reach 
them.  There  is  nothing  boundless,  but  God's  universe 
and  God's  nature ;  there  is  nothing  deathless,  but  ex- 
cellence, truth  and  beauty ;  and  it  is  only  when  we  live 
in  these,  that  we  live  in  the  measure  and  the  majesty 
of  our  souls.  Within  scope  more  confined,  we  are 
fettered  and  imprisoned  ;  and  if  the  scope  be  our  mis- 


THE   WORTH    OF    LIFE.  13 

erable  self,  it  is  as  narrow  as  it  is  dark.  We  must  be 
as  a  captive,  who  should  vary  the  dreariness  of  his 
nights  by  counting  the  links  of  his  chain,  and  amuse 
the  tedious  hours  of  his  day  by  scratching  his  own 
portrait  on  the  bare  walls  of  his  dungeons. 

Christ  is  willing  to  be  of  us,  but  we  do  not  permit  it ; 
he  would  be  near  us,  but  we  place  him  at  a  distance, 
and  this  uncordial  alienation  we  mistake  for  reverence. 
Christ  consecrated  human  life  ;  he  exhibited  its  impor- 
tance, and  the  more  we  are  assimilated  in  spirit  to 
Christ,  the  more  this  will  be  our  sentiment.  We  cannot 
measure  the  results  of  our  lives  by  his,  for  this  indeed 
would  be  presumption ;  and  yet,  of  the  humblest  life, 
it  would  be  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  consequences. 
Our  present  life,  in  every  turn  of  it,  is  leaving  impres- 
sions on  others  that  may  enter  radically  into  their 
moral  existence,  and  not  into  theirs  only,  but  through 
them,  into  many  beyond  any  power  of  estimate. 
Blessed  are  we,  if  these  are  right ;  and  woe  unto  us, 
if  they  are  evil.  And  if  unconsciously  our  life  is  thus 
influential,  proportionately  to  the  greater  intensity  is  it 
so  when  we  have  a  direct  knowledge.  Every  thought 
willingly  contemplated,  every  word  meaningly  spoken, 
every  action  freely  done,  consolidates  itself  in  the 
character,  and  will  project  itself  onward  in  a  perma- 
nent continuity.  The  circumstances  which  at  first  we 


14  THE    WORTH   OF   LIFE. 

can  rule,  afterwards  rule  us.  That  which  at  first  we 
choose,  afterwards  compels,  and  its  sovereignty  is  not 
the  less  complete,  that  we  do  not  feel  it  and  we  do  not 
recognise  it. 

This  law  of  existence  is  for  encouragement  and  for 
fear.  The  man  who  fights  bravely  against  temptation, 
has  a  consolation  in  knowing  that  he  will  pass  from 
strife  not  only  to  ease,  but  to  victory ;  the  man  who 
feels  many  requirements  of  duty  to  be  hard  self-denial, 
will  find,  with  perseverance,  this  self-denial  changed 
into  self-enjoyment.  In  the  opposite  direction,  the  law 
is  equally  inevitable.  No  man  gets  rid  of  evil  in  the 
moment  which  bounds  its  actual  continuance.  It  will 
infuse  itself  into  the  heart  of  thought,  and  again  and 
again  it  will  appear  unbidden.  That  which  once  was 
hesitant  will  be  spontaneous  ;  passions  will  act  without 
notice  ;  desires  will  prompt  without  excitement ;  words 
spoken  will  seem  of  themselves  to  speak  ;  and  deeds 
done  in  times  past  with  repugnance,  will  reproduce 
themselves  apparently  without  agency  and  without 
volition.  Here,  then,  are  consequences  the  most  mo- 
mentous, and  these  are  enfolded  in  our  present  exis- 
tence. Here  are  consequences  which  concern  our 
soul,  and  our  soul's  most  essential  interests,  —  the  in- 
terests of  its  power,  of  freedom,  of  its  dignity,  of  its 
peace. 


THE   WORTH    OF   LIFE.  15 

The  present  life,  therefore,  involves  consequences 
which  stretch  onward  through  progressive  existence, 
consequences  which  are  invested  not  alone  with  the 
importance  of  the  world  which  now  is,  but  the  awful- 
ness  of  that  which  is  to  come.  To  suppose  that  our 
existence  should  be  continued  in  another  stage  of  being, 
but  that  we  should  carry  with  us  no  whit  of  the  char- 
acter formed  in  this,  is  to  me  a  supposition  which  I  can 
reconcile  with  no  possible  mental  or  moral  analogy. 
According  to  my  apprehension,  the  supposition  in- 
volves an  entire  oblivion  of  this  world's  experience,  or 
a  complete  separation  of  one  state  of  existence  from 
the  other ;  in  different  words,  a  loss  of  personal  iden- 
tity, and  such  is  practically  a  loss  of  immortality.  But 
if  character  is  continuous,  death  does  not  obliterate  its 
essence ;  that  is  within  us  now,  it  will  be  within  us 
beyond  the  grave.  Every  present  hour,  therefore,  is 
portion  of  an  influence  which  will  enter  into  our  mys- 
terious and  illimitable  consciousness ;  every  present 
hour,  therefore,  partakes  in  the  worth  of  an  eternal 
intelligence  ;  and  this  worth  belongs  to  it,  whether  we 
esteem  retribution  temporary  or  everlasting,  if  we  be- 
lieve it  to  be  in  the  character  and  in  the  soul.  The 
idea  which  I  have  here  endeavored  to  develope,  of 
our  present  life,  has  all  the  grandeur  which  belongs  to 
our  undying  nature  ;  and  only  in  this  idea,  I  conceive, 
shall  we  measure  it  with  a  right  appreciation. 


16 


THE    WORTH    OF    LIFE. 


Some  words  of  practical  inference  are  now  all  that 
remain  to  be  said. 

1.  We  should  worthily  comprehend  our  life.  We 
should  realize  it  in  its  grandeur  and  its  completeness. 
We  should  feel  that  its  most  godlike  attributes  are  not 
qualities  which  are  to  be  an  addition  to  its  future  state, 
but  that  they  are  a  part  of  its  very  essence,  and  therefore 
belong  to  it  in  every  moment.  We  should  feel  equally 
that  what  seem  the  humbler  attributes  of  our  life  are 
no  dishonor  to  its  greatness,  but  in  their  due  subordina- 
tion, contribute  to  its  perfection.  Life  cannot  be  mainly 
in  pleasure,  and  the  effort  to  make  it  so  is  resistance  to 
nature  and  to  heaven.  But  pleasure,  notwithstanding, 
is  a  true  element  of  life,  and  the  austerity  which  would 
banish  gaiety  is  not  the  religion  which  loves  God  as  a 
Father,  but  the  fear  which  crouches  to  him  as  a  task- 
master. Let  age  have  its  grave  discourse  ;  but  give 
youth  its  gladsome  mirth  and  its  griefless  laughter. 
Whatever  is  pure  in  literature,  graceful  in  art,  beautiful 
in  nature,  cheerful  in  intercourse,  let  us  all  have  as 
duty  or  opportunity  permits;  and  while  we  do  not 
abuse  God's  blessings,  let  us  thankfully  enjoy  them. 
Life  is  not  entirely  in  work  ;  at  least  not  in  that  work, 
in  which  so  much  of  it  is  spent.  We  do  not  gain  a 
fair  compensation  for  our  life  in  wealth  or  in  worldly 
distinctions  ;  and  the  life  has  been  wasted,  which  has 


THE    WORTH    OF    LIFE.  17 

been  solely  devoted  to  these,  though  a  man  could  point 
to  thrones  which  his  ambition  had  won,  or  to  millions 
which  his  diligence  had  gathered.  To  realize  our  true 
life,  we  must  be  conscious  of  the  soul ;  we  must  know 
that  life  which  is  not  supported  by  bread  alone,  which 
cannot  be  satisfied  by  pleasure,  nor  find  its  chief  end 
in  riches ;  that  life  which  has  affinity  with  all  that  tends 
to  God,  and  grows  by  every  word  that  proceeds  out  of 
his  mouth. 

2.  We  should  be  true  to  the  relations  of  life. 
We  should  be  true  to  its  physical  relations.  The  laws 
of  health  are  the  laws  of  God,  as  well  as  the  laws 
of  virtue ;  indeed,  in  many  instances,  the  laws  of 
health  are  the  laws  of  virtue.  It  is  needless  to  say 
how  much  usefulness  may  be  lost  by  loss  of  health. 
When  work  is  to  be  done,  it  is  action  and  not  intention 
that  can  do  it ;  but  how  pure  soever  may  be  our  inten- 
tion, without  strength,  we  cannot  ,dd  our  action.  Nor 
is  it  the  body  alone  that  becomes  feeble,  but  frequently 
the  spirit  suffers  also  ;  peevish  tempers,  irritable  sensi- 
bilities, morbid  desires,  conspire  to  destroy  its  tranquil- 
lity ;  its  amiability  breaks  down  with  want  of  peace, 
and  those  who  love  us  are  made  unhappy,  by  sympathy 
with  our  pain,  or  by  grief  at  our  unreasonableness. 
Health  is  an  essential  of  activity,  and  it  is  also  a  peren- 
nial source  of  cheerfulness ;  the  objects  around  us  have 
2 


18  THE   WORTH    OF    LIFE. 

their  true  appearances,  the  world  and  life,  the  things 
which  it  contains  are  perceived  in  their  true  dimensions ; 
we  are  more  inclined  to  be  happy  ;  we  are  more  dis- 
posed to  render  others  happy  ;  we  are  better  able  to 
act,  and  we  are  better  able  to  bear.  To  neglect,  there- 
fore, even  this  relation  of  our  existence  is  a  more 
solemn  evil,  than  we  usually  esteem  it.  We  should  be 
true  to  the  moral  and  spiritual  relations  of  life,  —  itu 
relations  to  heaven  and  to  men  ;  in  spirit,  in  word,  in 
action,  maintaining  purity,  truth,  mercy,  justice,  and 
beneficence.  But  upon  such  topics  I  need  not  here 
enlarge,  as  it  is  the  whole  business  of  the  pulpit  to 
explain  and  to  enforce  them.  I  would  merely  say,  that 
our  Creator  has  so  inseparably  united  all  the  elements 
of  our  life,  that  we  cannot  fully  gain  its  lowest  good, 
and  be  indifferent  to  its  highest  nature  ;  false  to  it  in 
relations  of  the  soul,  it  becomes  all  through  gross, 
mean,  impoverished,  and  we  lose  it  even  in  matters 
of  the  senses. 

Some  few  remarks  of  another  kind,  and  I  close. 
Persons  may  not  be  slaves  to  this  world,  because  they 
are  not  always  talking  of  another  world.  The  deep 
mysteries  of  our  higher  existence,  and  the  inward 
hopes  and  fears  that  belong  to  it,  are  too  awful  to  be 
lightly  syllabled.  The  experience  which  bears  the 
soul  beyond  the  confines  of  the  flesh,  which  takes  it 


THE    WORTH    OF    LIFE.  19 

from  the  lower  arena  of  conflict  to  the  upper  sanctuary 
of  peace,  which  leads  it  into  communion  with  things 
not  seen,  and  into  converse  with  things  not  utterable  ; 
this  is  no  subject  for  the  common  ear  or  for  the  pass- 
ing hour.  What  is  called  religious  conversation  is 
often  the  least  religious,  often  presumptuous,  egotistical, 
impatient,  disputatious,  ungentle,  and  uncharitable. 
On  the  other  hand,  speech  in  which  religion  is  not 
named,  is  frequently  profoundly  religious,  replete  with 
thoughtful  sanctity,  with  gracious  and  elevated  feeling, 
humble,  courteous,  merciful,  and  liberal ;  not  wearying 
the  ear  with  a  round  of  phrases,  but  stirring  the  soul 
in  its  divine  faculties,  and  acting  on  it  with  a  transform- 
ing inspiration.  Where  such  an  inspiration  is,  it  will 
not  lose  its  power,  even  though  it  should  not  have  an 
utterance.  When  Moses  came  down  from  the  moun- 
tain, it  was  not  by  words  the  people  knew  that  he  had 
been  with  God,  but  by  the  glory  that  rested  on  his  face. 
And  so  it  is  with  all  that  live  purely,  and  that  live 
greatly.  The  brightness  that  comes  with  them  from 
retirement,  shows  that  they  have  been  near  to  heaven. 
And  persons  may  have  their  faces  towards  heaven,  and 
their  hearts  too,  and  yet  not  be  always  thinking  of  it. 
That  with  which  we  have  deepest  sympathy  is  not 
forever  present  to  our  thoughts,  and  much  less  excitingly 
present.  Extreme  agitation  robs  us  of  that  peace 


20  THE    WORTH    OF   LIFE. 

out  of  which  there  comes   forth  strength,  —  strength 
clad  in  the  glorious  panoply  of  God. 

In  the  natural  life,  we  are  not  better  prepared,  but 
worse  for  the  coming  stage,  by  propelling  the  mind  too 
eagerly  into  it.  The  child  hopes  to  be  a  boy,  but  does 
not  torment  himself  in  the  interval  with  cares  that 
have  not  come ;  and,  the  more  he  is  really  a  child, 
the  more  he  is  unconscious,  joyful,  gleeful,  happy, 
the  more  vigorous  and  proportioned  will  be  his  boy- 
hood. The  boy  hopes  to  be  a  man,  but  in  not  dwell- 
ing with  too  intent  anticipation  on  his  manhood,  but  by 
meeting  fully  the  conditions  of  his  boyhood,  by  being  all 
that  a  boy  should  be,  he  will  be  all  the  nobler  man. 
Not  unlike  to  the  natural  life  is  the  spiritual  life.  Its 
healthy  growth  is  continuous,  and  not  by  starts ;  in  a 
regular  succession,  and  not  in  impulsive  efforts.  When 
we  try  then,  with  all  our  minds,  to  comprehend  our 
life,  when  we  endeavor  with  all  our  hearts  to  be  true  to 
it,  then  let  us  patiently  wait,  gratefully  accept,  or  faith- 
tully  submit,  according  to  whatever  Providence  may 
order.  What  the  hour  that  now  is,  honestly  requires, 
that  let  us  honestly  be,  and  the  next  hour  when  it 
comes,  will  not  find  us  unprepared.  Always  in  har- 
mony with  the  occasion,  be  it  work  or  play,  be  it  study 
or  devotion,  we  may  be  at  ease  about  the  future, 
and  go  tranquilly  along  in  the  safety  of  a  righteous 


THE    WORTH    OF    LIFE.  21 

conscience.  Bearing  bravely  the  evils  that  beset  us, 
doing  cheerfully  the  duties  that  are  near,  trusting  in 
God,  guided  by  Christ,  fear  shall  not  confound  us  in 
the  way,  and  Death  shall  find  us  ready  ;  then,  as  chil- 
dren following  the  messenger  of  a  Parent,  we  shall 
pass  into  that  unseen  world  to  which  Death  is  the  sol- 
emn and  mysterious  herald. 

"  Know'st  thou  yesterday,  its  aim  and  reason  ? 
Work'st  thou  well  to-day  for  worthy  things  ? 
Then  calmly  wait  the  morroie's  hidden  season, 
And  fear  not  thou  what  hap  soe'er  it  brings  !  " 


THE   PERSONALITY   OF   LIFE. 


1  COR.  ii.  11. 

FOR     WHAT     MAN     KNOWETH     THE    THINGS    OF     A   MAN,  SAVE    THE 
SPIRIT   OF   A    MAN    WHICH   IS   IN  HIM  ? 

THE  consciousness  of  another  is  impenetrable.  We 
cannot  reach  it ;  we  cannot  even  conceive  of  it.  But 
in  our  own  is  our  existence ;  our  existence  and  our 
personality  are  the  same  ;  and,  therefore,  we  shrink 
from  the  extinction  of  our  personality,  because  it  im- 
plies the  extinction  of  our  existence.  Christianity 
teaches,  in  a  variety  of  ways,  the  doctrine  of  a  strict 
spiritual  personality.  Sometimes  it  connects  this  doc- 
trine with  the  essential  inwardness  of  a  man's  life  ; 
sometimes  with  the  essential  inwardness  of  a  man's 
conscience  ;  sometimes  in  warning,  with  the  account 
he  must  render  to  his  Maker ;  sometimes  in  rebuke, 
with  the  account  that  he  would  take  of  his  brother.  It 
is  not  the  least  remarkable  characteristic  of  Christian- 
ity, that  being  of  all  religions  the  most  social,  it  is 
likewise,  of  all  religions,  the  most  individualizing;  that, 


THE    PERSONALITY    OF    LIFE.  23 

of  all  religions,  it  is  the  only  one  which  separates 
self-experience  from  self-indulgence  ;  that  unites 
self-sacrifice  with  self-regard ;  that  brings  meditation 
and  action,  comprehensive  goodness  and  introspective 
thought,  into  full  agreement.  We  shall  look  at  this 
Christian  doctrine,  concerning  the  Personality  of  Life, 
in  a  variety  of  aspects.  The  spirit  of  trie  doctrine  we 
take  from  the  gospel ;  illustrations  of  it  we  shall  seek 
for  every  where. 

If  we  look  into  life,  in  itself,  as  each  of  us  finds  it  in 
his  own  experience,  as  each  of  us  finds  it  circum- 
scribed in  his  individual  consciousness,  we  become 
aware  of  a  principle  in  our  being,  by  which  we  are 
separate  from  the  universe,  and  separate  from  one 
another.  We  become  aware,  that,  by  the  power  of 
this  principle,  we  draw  all  the  influences  which  act  on 
us  into  our  personality,  and  that,  only  as  thus  infused, 
do  they  constitute  any  portion  of  our  inward  life.  It  is 
by  the  power  of-  this  principle,  which  is,  properly, 
myself,  modifying  all  that  is  not  myself,  that  I  live,  and 
that  my  life  is  independently  my  own.  But  some  say, 
that  man  has  no  inherent  spirituality,  no  spontaneous 
energy,  no  sovereign  capacity.  Such  say,  that  man  is 
never  the  master,  but  always  the  creature  of  circum- 
stances. These  are  assertions  to  which  no  logic  can 
be  applied,  and  if  a  man,  on  consulting  his  own  soul, 


24  THE   PERSONALITY   OF    LIFE. 

is  not  convinced  of  their  falsehood,  there  is  no  other 
method  of  conviction.  No  matter  what  may  appear  to 
be  the  external  slavery,  the  external  necessity  of  our 
condition,  we  still  feel  that  we  have  a  principle,  an 
individuality  of  life,  that  is  separate  from  our  circum- 
stances and  above  them.  Take  this  feeling  once  away, 
and  we  are  no  longer  rational,  and  we  are  no  longer 
persons.  And  to  this  end,  the  utmost  of  human  power 
is  as  feeble  as  an  invisible  atom.  Human  power  may 
indeed  so  alter  a  man's  condition  as  to  alter  his  experi- 
ence ;  to  give  him  pain  for  pleasure,  or  pleasure  for 
pain  ;  to  impoverish  or  to  enrich  him  ;  to  shake  his 
heart  with  fear,  or  to  entrance  it  with  delight ;  but  in 
every  change  his  individuality  is  perfect  and  his  own. 

We  do  not,  certainly,  deny  the  influence  of  circum- 
stances. In  a  great  degree,  circumstances  are  the 
materials  out  of  which  the  life  is  made;  and  the  quality 
of  the  materials  must,  of  course,  influence  more  or  less 
the  character  of  the  life.  But  the  connection  of  cir- 
cumstances with  life,  the  influence  of  circumstances  on 
life,  do  not  loosen  the  inviolability  of  its  interior  con- 
sciousness. This  doctrine  of  circumstances  affords  no 
aid  even  for  the  interpretation  of  that  in  life,  which 
may  be  interpreted  ;  because,  for  a  true  interpretation, 
you  should  know  all  the  circumstances  that  acted  on 
the  life,  and  you  should  know  in  what  manner  they 


THE    PERSONALITY   OF    LIFE.  25 

acted.  But  who  knows  this  of  any  one  ?  Who  knows 
it  of  one  with  whom  he  has  been  longest  and  nearest  ? 
Who  can  know  it  ?  Who  can  know  the  things  of  a 
man,  save  the  spirit  of  a  man  which  is  in  him  ?  Race, 
country,  era,  creed,  institutions,  family,  education, 
social  station,  employment,  friend,  companions,  —  these 
are  but  vague  data  when  a  soul  is  to  be  judged  ;  and, 
be  it  only  a  judgment  on  the  merest  externals  of  char- 
acter, such  data  afford,  even  for  this,  but  uncer- 
tain inference.  Perhaps  things  of  which  no  one  takes 
heed  are  the  most  important.  A  word  heard  in  child- 
hood, a  kind  or  cruel  look  felt  in  youth,  a  tune,  a 
picture,  a  prospect,  a  short  visit,  an  accident,  a  casual 
acquaintance,  a  book,  ay,  the  page  of  a  book,  —  some- 
thing, it  may  be,  that  observer's  eye  had  never  seen  ; 
something,  that  sank  ineradically  into  memory,  and 
never  passed  the  lips,  —  these,  and  a  thousand  like, 
may  be  the  chief  constituents  of  many  an  impulse  that 
begins  a  destiny.  We  behold  the  streams  of  individual 
life  as  they  bubble  out  upon  the  surface,  but  we  do  not 
see  the  fountains  whence  they  spring  ;  we  observe  the 
fruit,  sweet  or  bitter,  which  hangs  upon  the  branches, 
but  the  roots  are  concealed  from  which  it  grows. 

Every  life  has  combinations  of  experience,  of  which 
another  has  not  an  idea,  or  the  means  of  forming  an 
idea.  Every  life  has  treasures  of  which  others  know 


26  THE    PERSONALITY   OF   LIFE. 

not,  out  of  which,  and  often  when  least  expected,  it  can 
bring  things  new  and  old.  But,  did  we  know,  and 
most  exactly  know,  all  the  circumstances  that  enter 
into  another's  life,  in  what  way  they  mingle  with  thai 
life,  in  what  way  they  become  a  part  of  it,  it  would  still 
present  to  us  an  impenetrable  mystery.  How  it  is  that 
events,  incidents,  objects,  turns,  and  changes,  alike  in 
outward  semblance,  enter  into  millions  of  minds,  and  in 
every  one  of  them  assimilate  with  a  different  individu- 
ality. How  one  man  is  a  poet,  where  another  man  is 
a  sot ;  how  one  man  is  in  raptures,  where  another  is 
asleep;  how  one  man  is  improved,  where  another  is 
corrupted ;  how  one  man  devotes  himself  to  all  that 
makes  devotion  great,  where  another  finds  nothing  to 
attract  him,  but  that  which  should  repel  him.  Thus, 
whatever  the  visible  appearances,  within  them,  then; 
is  a  central  self,  in  which  the  essence  of  the  man 
abides.  Your  life  is  yours,  it  is  not  mine.  My  life  is 
mine,  and  not  another's.  It  is  not  alone  specific,  it  is 
individual.  Human  faculties  are  common,  but  that 
which  converge  these  faculties  into  my  identity,  sepa- 
rates me  from  every  other  man.  That  other  man  can- 
not think  my  thoughts,  he  cannot  speak  my  words,  ho 
cannot  do  my  works.  He  cannot  have  my  sins,  I  can- 
not have  his  virtues.  I  am  as  incapable  of  taking  his 
place,  as  he  is  of  taking  mine.  Each  must  feel,  there- 


\ 

THE   PERSONALITY   OF   LIFE.  27 

fore,  that  his  life  must  be  his  own.  It  has  a  training,  and 
an  impulse,  and  a  power,  and  a  purpose,  which  give 
him  an  independent  personality  ;  and  in  the  unfolding 
of  that  personality,  consist  the  destiny  of  his  life  and 
its  uses. 

Life  is  first  unfolded  through  outward  nature.  In 
that  rudest  state  of  humanity,  which  seems  almost 
instinctive,  we  might  imagine  individuality  as  nearly 
impossible,  but  so  it  is  not;  and  monotonous  as  the 
ideas  and  experience  may  appear,  they  become  in- 
corporated with  a  distinct  life,  in  the  personality  of 
each  soul.  But,  does  not  outward  nature  afford  mani- 
fest evidence,  that  it  intended  to  unfold  life  through 
higher  feelings  than  sensation  ;  sensation  of  that  kind, 
I  mean,  which  is  merely  necessary  to  animate  exist- 
ence ?  Is  there  not  other  purpose  for  sight  than  dis- 
cernment of  our  position  and  our  way  ?  Is  there  not 
other  purpose  for  hearing,  than  the  simple  perception 
of  sound  ?  Why  are  there  flowers  in  the  field  ?  Why 
are  blossoms  on  the  trees?  Why  in  summer  is  such 
bloom  upon  the  woods  ;  and  why  is  autumn  so  clad 
with  glory  ?  Why  is  the  rainbow  painted  with  hues  so 
inimitable?  Why,  indeed,  is  every  natural  object  so 
shaped  and  colored,  that  the  very  sun  seems  but  as  a 
great  light  kindled  in  the  midst  of  immensity,  to  illumi- 
nate and  display  the  riches  of  its  beauty?  Or,  why. 


28  THE   PERSONALITY   OF   LIFE. 

also,  do  the  waves  make  music  with  the  shore  ?  Why 
do  the  airs  make  music  in  the  groves  ?  These  are  not 
necessary  to  feed,  or  lodge,  or  clothe  us ;  they  are 
not  necessary  to  mere  labor  or  mere  intercourse. 
Did  God  lavish  out  this  infinite  wealth  of  adornment, 
which  ministers  nothing  to  bare  bodily  wants,  which 
is  not  needed  for  bodily  subsistence,  not  even  for 
bodily  comfort,  that  it  should  be  as  idle  gaud  and 
empty  song  in  his  inanimate  creation,  but  afford  no 
nutriment  to  the  inherent  life  of  his  rational  creatures? 
This  cannot  be,  since  we  know,  that  the  most  imper- 
fect life  has  a  sense  of  beauty,  and  that  in  some  lives 
it  has  the  depth  of  an  inspiration  and  the  force  of 
passion. 

The  life  is  indeed  but  narrowly  unfolded,  in  which 
the  sense  of  beauty  in  outward  nature  is  dull  or  want- 
ing. To  walk  over  this  goodly  earth  through  the 
changing  path  of  threescore  years  and  ten  ;  to  take  no 
note  of  time  but  by  the  almanac  ;  not  to  mark  the 
seasons,  except  by  the  profit  or  the  loss  they  bring  ;  to 
think  of  days  and  nights  as  mere  alternations  of  toil 
and  sleep  ;  to  discern  in  the  river  only  its  adaptation  for 
factories ;  to  associate  the  ocean  only  with  facilities  of 
traffic ;  to  care  not  for  the  solemn  revolutions  of  the 
earth  through  its  circle  in  the  stars;  to  have  no  eye  for 
the  infinity  of  sight ;  no  hearing  for  the  endless  sue- 


THE    PERSONALITY    OF    LIFE.  29 

cession  of  sounds,  —  sights  and  sounds,  that  vary  ever 
as  the  earth  rolls  on ;  to  be  blind,  and  deaf,  and 
callous,  to  all  but  the  hardest  uses  of  creation,  —  is 
to  leave  out  of  conscious  being  whatever  gives  the 
universe  its  most  vital  reality.  Such  a  life  may  be 
called  a  prudent  life,  and,  for  its  object,  it  may  be 
an  eminently  successful  life  ;  but  its  object  is  paltry, 
and  its  success  on  the  level  of  its  object.  Not  that 
men  are  expected  to  be  poets  or  artists,  or  to  have 
the  peculiar  temperaments  that  characterize  poets 
or  artists.  Not  that  men  are  expected  to  talk  of  their 
experience  of  enjoyment  in  nature,  or  to  affect  it,  if 
they  have  it  not.  The  ready  exposure  of  any  intimate 
emotion  is  unmanly  as  well  as  ungraceful.  When  true, 
it  is  offensive  ;  when  false,  it  is  disgusting.  The  pretence 
of  emotion  is  among  the  vilest  of  hypocrisies  ;  the  cant 
of  sensibility  is  one  of  the  worst  depravities  of  lan- 
guage. Not  that  men  are  expected  to  relax  in  the  rugged 
duties  of  private  or  public  industry,  which  are  equally 
necessary  and  honorable  ;  not  that  they  are  expected 
to  spend  weeks,  or  even  days  in  the  woods  and  fields, 
or  watch  the  courses  of  the  stars,  indolently  to  meditate 
and  moralize  ;  I  merely  insist  that  the  sensibilities  be 
open  to  every  influence  of  natural  beauty  ;  I  speak  of 
the  life  that  is  strictly  personal,  and  I  hold  that  such 
life  is  greatly  enriched  which  gathers  as  much  of  these 


30  THE    PERSONALITI    OF    LIFE. 

as  it  can  into  its  experience.  If  these  sensibilities  be- 
long not  to  the  individual  constitution,  there  is  a  deficit 
in  it.  If  the  world  has  deadened  them,  the  world  has 
done  the  being  a  serious  injury  ;  if  educational  or  relig- 
ious culture  has  not  been  such  as  to  incite  them,  each 
has  failed  in  one  of  the  most  vital  offices  of  a  true  spir- 
itual culture.  For  it  is  not  in  mere  sensibility  alone 
to  beauty,  that  life  is  unfolded  by  means  of  outward 
nature.  Outward  nature,  also,  unfolds  life  by  exercis- 
ing thought ;  not  thought  which  is  busied  only  about 
wants,  but  thought  which  delights  to  seek  the  end  of 
creation's  laws  and  mysteries.  But  life  is  unfolded  in 
its  loftiest  capacities,  when  every  where  in  outward 
nature  the  soul  is  conscious  of  God's  pervading  pres- 
ence ;  when  it  sees  the  goodness  of  God  in  all  that 
is  lovely,  and  the  wisdom  of  God  in  all  that  is  true. 
"A  thing  of  beauty  it  has  been  seeing,  is  a  joy  for- 
ever." But  it  is  not  a  joy  at  all,  until  it  becomes 
mingled  with  a  human  life.  A  child  wanders  by  a 
stream.  The  stream  would  babble  onward,  whether 
the  child  were  there  or  not  ;  but  when  the  child 
mingles  his  laughter  with  its  babbling,  it  is  then  a  thing 
of  beauty  and  a  thing  of  joy.  Every  man,  whether  he 
knows  it  or  not,  is  an  incarnation  of  the  immortal ;  and 
through  his  immortality  all  things  that  connect  them- 
selves with  his  soul  are  immortal.  In  every  loving  soul, 


THE    PERSONALITY    OF    LIFE.  31 

therefore,  according  to  the  measure  and  exent  of  its 
power,  God  re-constructs  the  heavens  and  the  earth. 

The  individual  being  of  man  is  also  unfolded  by 
society.  It  is  born  into  society,  and  by  society  it  lives. 
Existing  at  first  in  passive  and  unconscious  instincts,  it 
finds  protection  in  the  care  of  intelligent  affections. 
The  home,  therefore,  is  the  first  circle  within  which 
personality  opens,  and  it  is  always  the  nearest.  Beyond 
this,  the  individual  is  surrounded  with  circumstances 
more  complex.  He  is  cast  among  persons  whose  wills 
are  not  only  different  from  his  own,  but  constantly 
antagonistic  to  it.  And  thus  in  society,  as  in  nature, 
the  unfolding  of  his  being  will  be  by  resistance  as  well 
as  by  affinity.  The  most  self-complete  personality  can 
have  no  development  but  by  means  of  society  ;  and  the 
more  it  has  largeness  of  capacity,  the  more  it  has  full- 
ness of  thought,  the  more  it  has  greatness  of  feeling, 
the  more  it  has  aptitude  for  action,  the  more  it  needs 
society  ;  the  more  it  needs  society  to  draw  out  its 
faculties  and  to  engage  them.  Intellect  works  by 
means  of  society.  Thinkers  the  most  abstract  have 
not  all  their  materials  of  reflection  in  themselves.  The 
studies  that  belong  purely  to  the  mind  as  well  as  those 
that  belong  to  matter,  and  to  the  active  relations  of  life, 
require  observation,  comparison,  sagacity,  variety  of 
acquisition,  and  experience.  No  man  can  be  a  thinker 


32  THE    PERSONALITY    OF    LIFE. 

by  mere  self-contemplation.  He  might  as  well  expect 
to  become  a  physiognomist  by  always  gazing  in  a 
mirror,  or  to  become  a  geographer  by  measuring  the 
dimensions  of  his  chamber.  A  man  is  revealed  even 
to  himself  by  the  action  on  him  of  external  things,  and 
of  other  minds.  According  to  the  measure  of  the 
sphere  in  which  a  man  is  placed,  and  his  sufficiency  to 
fill  it ;  according  to  the  force  of  the  influences  which 
operate  upon  him,  and  his  ability  to  give  them  form 
and  direction,  must  be  the  expansion  of  his  being. 
Society  is,  of  consequence,  a  necessity,  not  to  the 
growth  merely  of  thought,  but  to  its  very  existence. 
The  body  could  as  easily  breathe  without  an  atmos- 
phere, as  the  mind  could  cogitate  without  society. 

Thinkers,  the  most  abstract  as  well  as  the  most  prac- 
tical, have  been  men  of  the  world,  and  men  in  it. 
Aristotle  was  a  courtier  ;  so  was  Lord  Bacon  ;  and  no 
modern  politician  is  more  among  crowds,  than  was  the 
mighty-minded  Socrates.  Imagination  works  by  means 
of  society.  For  society  it  builds  and  sculptures,  paints, 
—  forms  its  concords  of  sweet  sounds,  and  puts  its 
dreams  into  melody  and  measure.  Of  the  men  who 
have  done  these  things  so  supremely,  as  to  gain  immor- 
tal names,  many  were  reared  in  cities,  and  nearly  all 
labored  in  them.  Among  such  we  may  especially 
name  the  great  poets,  and,  as  not  the  least  remarkable, 


THE    PERSONALITY    OF    LIFE.  33 

the  bards  of  rural  life.  In  contrast  with  crowded 
places  and  artificial  objects,  men  felt  with  quick  delight 
the  influences  of  God's  uncontaminated  creation,  while 
many  whose  dwellings  were  embosomed  in  the  secluded 
peace  of  nature,  slept  through  life  and  into  death  with- 
out awaking  to  any  knowledge  or  enjoyment  of  their 
inheritance. 

But  for  society,  virtue  could  neither  have  existence 
nor  a  name.  Society,  and  society  alone,  by  its  obliga- 
tions and  injunctions,  by  the  contact  in  which  it  places 
will  to  will,  by  its  excitements  and  its  sympathies, 
elicits  the  power  of  the  moral  nature  :  society  it  is, 
that  trains  this  power,  tries  it,  strengthens,  matures  it ; 
is  the  arena  of  its  contest,  is  the  field  of  its  victories. 
But  if  in  society  the  moral  nature  has  its  contests,  in 
society  also  it  has  its  charities.  There  are  the  blind, 
the  deaf,  the  feeble,  the  disordered  body,  and  the  dis- 
ordered mind  ;  there  are  the  widow,  and  the  orphan, 
and  the  forlorn  aged  ;  there  are  the  poverty-stricken, 
with  thoughts  bewildered  in  the  puzzling  meditations  of 
distress  ;  parents  that  look  mournfully  on  their  children, 
and  children  that  gaze  bewildered  on  their  parents  ; 
there  are  the  ignorant,  the  guilty,  and  the  enslaved. 
In  society,  there  is,  indeed,  abundant  tribulation,  but  in 
the  heart  of  man  there  is  abundant  mercy,  a  fountain 
of  goodness,  exhaustless  and  sublime.  The  religious 


34  THE   PERSONALITY   OF   LIFE. 

sentiment  works  by  means  of  society.  The  simplest 
possible  idea  of  religion,  is  an  idea  of  relations  ;  for 
without  the  sense  of  dependence,  of  duty,  and  of  devo- 
tion, we  cannot  even  conceive  of  religion.  Christianity 
represents  these  relations  always  by  images  the  most 
intimately  social ;  in  God,  it  teaches  us  to  find  a  Father ; 
in  man,  a  brother;  in  the  church,  a  household,  a  com- 
munion, a  household  of  faith,  a  communion  of  saints. 
But  the  passions  work  also  by  means  of  society ;  and 
their  depravity  and  dominion  are  but  too  sadly  apparent 
in  the  strifes  and  corruption,  which  are  bounded  only 
by  the  power  of  our  nature,  and  by  the  limits  of  our 
race.  Too  surely  are  they  manifested  in  the  envy, 
hatred,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness,  which  poison 
and  disturb  communities  ;  tremendously  are  they  felt, 
when,  in  their  compacted  vastness,  they  gather  to  the 
blackness  of  a  fury  that  eclipses  the  light  above  us,  and 
into  hurricanes  of  wrath  that  shake  the  world. 

But  while  society,  whether  in  calm  or  conflict,  unfolds 
life,  to  this  its  agency  should  be  bounded.  It  should  not 
be  allowed  to  absorb  the  individual  life,  or  to  crush  it. 
With  the  strength,  the  freedom,  the  integrity  of  thought 
and  conscience  ;  with  honest  and  unoffending  idiosyn- 
crasies, it  has  no  claim  to  interfere.  When  this  inter- 
ference threatens,  or  invades  any  serious  right  of  a 
man's  personality,  at  any  sacrifice  but  the  sacrifice  of 


THE    PERSONALITY    OF    LIFE.  35 

% 

duty,  the  personality  must  be  vindicated.  The  natural 
power  of  society,  or  combinations  in  society,  will  always 
be  as  strong  as  they  are  insidious ;  and  let  a  man  guard 
his  independence  as  vigilantly  as  he  can,  when  watched 
the  most  jealously,  it  will  never  be  too  secure.  Men 
in  our  age  live  gregariously  ;  and  if  the  aggregation 
were  for  exertion  and  for  work,  this  might  be  a  benefit ; 
but  men  think,  men  feel  conventionally,  and  this  is  an 
evil.  It  enfeebles,  it  impoverishes  the  life,  it  depresses, 
nay,  it  denounces  originality,  it  takes  away  all  stimulus 
to  meditation,  reflection,  or  any  strong  mental  effort. 
I  deny  not  that  we  owe  a  decent  respect  to  the  consent 
of  numbers  in  thought  and  action  ;  and  let  it  have  all 
the  respect  which  it  can  fairly  claim.  The  sanction  of 
time,  also,  may  deserve  our  veneration  ;  nor  should  we 
ever  treat  such  a  sanction  with  levity.  I  do  not  im- 
peach the  value  of  public  opinion,  and  1  cannot  but 
admit  its  power.  But  I  do  not  bow  to  it  as  an  authority, 
nor  accept  it  as  a  guide. 

Life  in  our  age  is  too  much  in  the  mass  for  any 
thorough  spiritual  culture  ;  and  life  is  too  much  in  the 
outward  for  any  intensity  of  individual  character.  Men 
are  looking  beyond,  when  they  should  look  within 
themselves  ;  they  are  anxious  for  the  good  of  the  com- 
munity, when  they  should  be  at  work  to  mould  their 
own  nature  to  the  best  conformation  of  which  it  is 


36  THE   PERSONALITY   OF   LIFE. 

susceptible.  If  those  who  use  efforts  for  others,  and 
use  them  seriously,  would  first  use  them  to  the  utmost 
on  their  own  spirits,  society  would  advance  more 
quickly  towards  regeneration.  Just  as  one  supreme 
work  has  a  more  elevating  influence  upon  art,  than 
thousands  that  are  imperfect,  so  one  really  complete 
and  harmonious  character  does  more  to  raise  the  com- 
munity than  scores  which  fail  of  power  and  proportion. 
Society  unfolds  the  life  to  a  true  end,  only  when  it 
respects,  while  aiming  to  improve  the  individual,  his 
inward,  his  really  inalienable  rights.  It  may  correct,  it 
may  chastise,  I  will  not  say  that  it  may  kill,  —  but 
these  it  has  no  title  to  outrage.  The  individual  has  the 
authority,  and,  if  he  will,  he  has  the  power,  to  resist 
such  usurpation,  to  hold  his  inner  being  as  his  own, 
and  to  preserve  inviolable  its  individuality  and  indepen- 
dence. Let  every  man  do  this,  and  for  the  same 
reason  that  he  respects  his  own  personality,  let  him 
respect  that  of  every  other.  Let  every  man,  I  say, 
hold  his  personality  sacred  :  let  him  do  so,  because  he 
will  thus  build  a  nobler  virtue  for  himself;  because  he 
will  thus  exercise  a  juster  influence  on  his  neighbor, 
and  because  the  combinations  which  grow  out  of  sym- 
pathies free  and  independent,  have  that  real  union, 
wherein  is  strength.  Let  not  even  the  consciousness 
of  having  done  evil,  break  down  the  strength  of  this 
personality. 


THE    PERSONALITY    OF    LIFE.  37 

There  is  a  mawkish  tendency  in  some,  to  charge 
their  failings  on  this  or  that  cause  out  of  themselves. 
They  were  tempted,  the  evil  was  placed  in  their  way, 
and  they  could  neither  pass  by  it  nor  bound  over  it. 
This  is  a  dastard,  craven,  cowardly  spirit ;  a  base, 
mean,  cringing  spirit,  which,  after  all,  absolves  not 
from  the  transgression,  while  it  pulls  down  the  soul 
into  the  deepest  pit  of  degradation.  It  is  just  as  far 
from  genuine  repentance  and  humility,  as  it  is  from 
honesty  and  heroism.  If  any  one  has  done  wrong,  let 
him  manfully  admit  it ;  let  him,  as  he  ought,  charge  it 
on  himself,  and  take  the  penalty  ;  let  him  not  accept  of 
escape,  which  would  be  the  perfection  of  disgrace  by 
stripping  him  of  his  moral  manhood  ;  let  him  not  evade 
his  personal  responsibility,  and  thus  cast  away  the  last 
fragment  of  honor  that  may  remain  with  humanity 
even  after  guilt.  Those  who  in  the  least  aid  a  man  in 
this  degrading  self-deception  ;  who  weaken,  however 
slightly,  the  solemn  monitions  that  belong  only  to 
strictly  personal  conviction,  —  commit  a  fatal  error  ; 
for  this  is  the  proper  basis  of  social  as  well  as  indi- 
vidual morals.  Shake  this,  and  nothing  is  secure. 
When  we  judge  others,  we  must  make  every  merciful 
allowance  ;  but  we  must  not  teach  themselves  to  do  so ; 
nor  must  we  do  so  when  we  judge  ourselves. 

I  have  said  that  we  should  hold  every  man's  person- 


38  THE    PERSONALITY   OF  LIFE. 

ality  sacred,  as  well  as  our  own,  —  and  I  repeat  it. 
Why  should  I  wish  to  compel  any  man,  if  such  were 
possible,  to  live  my  life,  think  my  thoughts,  accept  my 
opinions,  believe  my  creed,  worship  at  my  altar,  devote 
himself  to  my  views,  and  enrol  himself  in  my  party  ? 
If  such  desire  were  not  utterly  foolish,  would  it  not  be 
the  climax  of  presumption  ?  But  to  be  cold  towards 
him,  to  avoid  him,  or  be  angry  because  he  will  not, 
this  is  something  worse  than  folly  or  presumption,  —  it 
is  the  malevolence  of  a  bigot.  Some  one  may  object, 
that  the  personality  which  I  defend  is  an  obstinate 
egotism.  Not  at  all.  Nor  is  it  combative  or  exacting, 
but  charitable  and  liberal.  The  absence  of  a  true  indi- 
viduality produces  many  of  the  gloomiest  evils  with 
which  society  is  deformed.  Why  else  do  people  con- 
sider the  meat  as  more  than  the  life,  and  the  raiment 
more  than  the  body  ?  WThy  else  do  they  so  esteem 
that  which  is  not  their  being,  and  so  little  that  which 
is  ?  Why  else  do  they  so  sicken  for  fine  houses,  and 
gay  clothes,  and  great  feasts,  and  the  chief  places  in 
the  resorts  of  fashion  ?  Why,  also,  do  they  so  fiercely 
envy  those  who  have  them  ?  Why  else  do  people  ape 
the  talents  of  others,  and  neglect  those  which  are  their 
own  ?  Why  do  they  so  abortively  attempt  the  work 
they  cannot  do,  and  overlook  the  work  they  can  ?  The 
want  of  individuality  gives  force  to  all  the  imitative  and 


THE    PERSONALITY   OF    LIFE.  39 

all  the  emulating  passions,  out  of  which  silent  or  out- 
ward strife  proceeds. 

Let  a  man  be  satisfied  to  be  himself,  and  he  will  not 
be  dissatisfied  because  he  is  not  another.  He  will  not, 
then,  be  hostile  to  that  other  for  being  what  he  is ;  nay, 
he  will  rejoice  in  all  by  which  that  other  is  ennobled  ; 
he  will  lament  for  all  by  which  he  is  degraded.  For  a 
man,  therefore,  to  be  himself,  fully,  honestly,  com- 
pletely, does  not  circumscribe  his  communion,  —  it 
makes  it  wider.  But  a  man  should  not  be  content  to 
be  only  roughly  himself.  A  man  ought  to  labor  to 
beautify  and  harmonize  in  his  interior  personality  ;  and 
if  that  be  done,  there  will  be  no  confusion  in  his  exte- 
rior relationships.  And  what  a  glorious  work  is  this ! 
If  the  sculptor  spends  years  in  toil  to  shape  hard  marble 
into  grace,  and  then  dies  contented,  what  should  not  a 
man  be  willing  to  bear  and  do,  when  it  is  a  deathless 
spirit  that  he  forms  to  immortal  loveliness  ?  Gratify 
inclination,  speak  as  the  blood  prompts,  act  as  selfish 
volition  or  selfish  desires  command,  and  all  will  be 
disorder.  A  man  must  not  allow  this.  He  must  test 
his  nature  by  external  facts ;  he  must  find  its  relations 
to  general  laws  ;  he  must  accept  these  laws  reverently 
and  obediently.  Still,  the  work  of  training  must  mainly 
be  his  own,  and  it  must  consist  with  the  inviolable  per- 
sonality of  spiritual,  individual,  immortal  existence. 


40  THE   PERSONALITY    OF   LIFE. 

After  all,  there  is  much  of  one's  life  that  is  not 
unfolded  ;  much  that  remains  uncommunicated,  or  that 
is  incommunicable.  The  very  medium,  language,  by 
which  spirit  holds  converse  with  spirit,  is  inadequate  to 
transmit  the  plainest  thought  as  it  is  in  the  mind  of  the 
speaker.  Language  is  not  representative,  but  suggest- 
ive, and  no  merely  spiritual  idea  is  exactly  the  same  in 
any  two  minds.  No  word  therefore  can  be,  to  any  two 
minds,  the  sign  of  an  import  that  absolutely  corres- 
ponds in  both.  How  much  of  life  passes  within  us, 
that  we  make  no  attempt  to  impart,  that  we  have  no 
opportunity  to  impart.  Nor  is  this  so  only  with  those 
whose  lot  is  isolated  ;  it  is  so  with  all,  —  with  the  most 
social,  with  those  whose  homes  are  full,  and  who  spend 
large  portions  of  their  time  in  domestic  and  general 
society.  The  man  who  has  the  most  intimate  circle, 
and  has  it  constantly  about  him,  leads  a  life  that  is 
greatly  more  in  solitude  than  in  company.  How  much 
of  our  life  passes  in  our  walks,  in  our  journeyings,  in 
our  labors,  in  our  rest,  and  all  in  the  depths  of  un- 
broken silence.  The  man  who  has  spoken  huge 
volumes,  the  man  who  has  written  such,  has  yet  given 
out  but  a  mere  fraction  of  his  existence.  The  whole  of 
no  human  being's  life  is  known  to  another,  possessed 
by  another,  though  that  other  be  in  the  closest  and  most 
constant  communion  with  the  life. 


THE    PERSONALITY    OF    LIFE.  41 

If  we  find  such  to  be  our  ordinary  experience  in  life, 
what  shall  we  say  of  its  more  solemn  passages  ?  Can 
any  man,  and  let  him  be  of  surpassing  eloquence,  com- 
municate an  absorbing  thought,  and  the  interest  with 
which  it  fills  him  ?  Can  any  man  cause  another  to 
burn  with  the  rapture  in  which  his  soul  exults  in  certain 
moments,  when  excited  by  a  scene  of  beauty  ?  No  : 
we  try  in  vain  to  express  an  overflowing  joy,  as  vainly 
do  we  attempt  to  put  into  utterance  a  deeply-seated 
grief.  What  words  will  translate  the  beatings  of  a 
youthful  mother's  heart,  when  she  looks  into  the  face 
of  her  first-born  ?  What  language  has  man  yet  spoken, 
which  can  make  fit  confession  of  the  deadly  and  the 
dread  remorse  which  a  duellist,  not  dehumanized,  must 
endure,  with  every  recollection  of  his  victim  ?  Even 
bodily  pain,  we  cannot  make  the  most  sympathizing 
understand  ;  and  when  the  visitation  of  sickness  lays 
us  low,  when  the  head  is  burning,  and  the  heart  is  faint, 
and  the  eye  is  dim,  though  tenderest  ministries  be 
around  the  pillow,  we  are  alone,  we  have  emotions 
which  we  cannot,  if  we  would,  impart.  And  then 
Death  —  Death  always  in  shadow,  always  in  silence, 
always  absolute  in  isolation  ! 

Who,  then,  can  know  the  things  of  a  man,  save  the 
spirit  of  a  man  which  is  in  him  ?  What  misgivings, 
what  memories,  what  darkening  fears,  what  dawning 


42  THE    PERSONALITY    OF    LIFE. 

hopes,  may  then  agitate  the  breast,  and  none  can  know, 
and  none  can  share  them  !  Our  friends  may  weep,  they 
may  call  on  us,  they  may  warm  us  with  their  kisses, 
they  may  bathe  us  with  their  tears,  but  the  spirit  is 
shut  in,  and  its  earthly  communion  is  over.  What  is 
that  with  which  the  spirit  of  the  tyrant,  of  the  oppres- 
sor, of  the  hard-hearted,  of  him  who  bought  gold  by 
iniquity,  of  him  who  climbed  to  power  through  slaugh- 
ter,—  what  is  that  with  which  such  spirits  are  shut  in  ? 
What  vision  opens  upon  expiring  Dives  ?  What  bright- 
ens the  closing  eye  of  dying  Lazarus  ?  We  shall  not 
seek  to  pierce  the  mystery.  These  solemn  isolations, 
we  ought  not  to  forget ;  they  must,  sooner  or  later, 
come  to  us  all,  and  it  is  but  common  prudence  to 
gather  strength  to  meet  them. 

I  have  spoken  mostly  of  that  in  all  men  which  they 
cannot  speak  ;  which,  if  they  could,  none  would  under- 
stand ;  but  more  inscrutable  still  are  the  great  ones  of 
our  race.  They  walk  among  men  as  mysteries  and 
alone.  How  companionless  in  spirit  must  the  men 
always  have  been,  who  were  far  before  their  age,  in 
wisdom  or  in  goodness.  The  sage  comes  with  his 
thought,  and  his  generation  mocks  it ;  a  century  or 
centuries  must  pass,  before  it  begins  to  be  a  fact. 
The  seer  comes  with  his  warning,  and  those  whom  he 
would  deliver,  stone  and  kill  him.  The  apostle  with 


THE    PERSONALITY    OF    LIFE.  43 

his  doctrines,  and  the  philanthropist  with  his  plans  ; 
they  must  wait  until  Time  gives  at  once  the  exposition 
and  the  confirmation.  But  in  the  heart  of  Jesus,  above 
all,  what  mysteries  and  worlds  there  must  have  been 
of  unshared  and  incommunicable  sanctity  and  good- 
ness !  What  a  life  was  his,  so  isolated,  so  unshared  : 
what  a  life  in  such  an  age ;  but  if  man  could  not  com- 
prehend it,  it  was  comprehended  of  God  ;  and  belong- 
ing, as  it  did,  to  Eternity,  it  was  impossible  for  the 
passing  day  to  know  it. 

The  view  that  I  have  given  in  this  discourse  of  life, 
some,  I  doubt  not,  will  consider  lonely.  I  have  not 
spoken  but  with  full  persuasion  of  the  fact ;  and  I 
have  done  my  best  to  give  a  clear  statement  of  it,  with 
its  arguments  and  illustrations.  A  great  part  of  life 
must  indeed  be  lonely,  and  that  is  often  not  the  worst 
part.  In  a  pure  and  reflective  loneliness  there  is 
strength,  and  there  is  depth  in  it.  There  is  great  en- 
richment in  it.  To  get  at  the  meanings  and  mysteries 
of  things,  we  must  converse  with  them  alone.  Every 
man,  therefore,  in  whom  the  highest  life  finds  expres- 
sion, must  in  many  ways  be  a  lonely  man.  So  the 
thinker  is  lonely ;  the  poet  is  lonely  ;  the  hero  is  lonely ; 
the  saint  is  lonely  ;  the  martyr  is  lonely.  Social  affec- 
tion has,  indeed,  great  beauty ;  public  spirit  much 
worth ;  energetic  talents  have  abundant  utility  ;  but  it 


44  THE   PERSONALITY   OF    LIFE. 

is  by  habits  of  independent  and  solitary  meditation, 
that  they  are  matured,  deepened,  and  consolidated.  In 
this  way  a  man  enlarges  his  life,  while  he  individualizes 
it ;  every  sphere  of  being  then  lives  in  him  and  he  in 
that,  so  that  his  individuality  has  no  limit,  but  the  limits 
of  its  faculties,  and  the  limits  of  their  exercise. 

Yet,  if  much  that  I  have  spoken  on  man's  personality, 
on  the  inwardness  and  the  incommunicableness  that 
belong  to  his  deepest  and  most  real  life,  may  be  ques- 
tioned, two  positions  I  will  refer  to,  on  one  of  which 
our  present  experience  can  decide  ;  the  other  lies  for 
trial  in  that  great  Future  which  the  veil  of  flesh  con- 
ceals. The  one  is,  that  in  which  a  man  feels  placed 
for  judgment  before  his  secret  self;  and  still  more,  if 
he  acknowledges  and  is  conscious  of  it,  —  God's  Holy 
Presence.  But  let  it  be  only  himself,  and  even  then, 
poor  and  fallible  as  conscience  may  be,  his  sin  will  find 
him ;  the  wrong  that  he  has  caused  or  done,  the  misery 
he  has  occasioned  or  inflicted,  will  often  come  to  him 
in  memories  charged  with  terror ;  though  he  should  be 
in  the  midst  of  ten  thousand,  they  will  come  to  him 
alone  ;  though  he  could  grasp  in  thought  the  whole 
population  of  the  world,  he  will  be  conscious  that  on 
him  only  the  charge  is  made,  that  he  only  in  this 
case  is  the  being  meant,  that  he  only  is  the  being 
guilty.  Here,  at  least,  is  a  strict,  individual  personal- 


THE    PERSONALITY    OF    LIFE.  45 

ity  ;  and  though  a  man  may  blind  himself  to  the  witness 
of  God,  God  has  so  ordered  it,  that  he  cannot  entirely 
be  blind  to  the  witness  in  himself.  And  in  that  other, 
hidden  behind  the  grave,  where  man  cannot  by  easy 
speeches  and  fair  looks,  appear  to  be  what  he  is  not ; 
while  most  revealed,  he  will  be  most  individualized. 
When  illusions  are  over,  when  the  distractions  of  sense, 
the  vagaries  of  fancy,  and  the  tumults  of  passion  have 
dissolved  even  before  the  body  is  cold,  which  once  they 
so  thronged  and  agitated,  the  soul  merges  into  intellect, 
intellect  into  conscience,  conscience  into  the  unbroken, 
awful  solitude  of  its  own  personal  accountability  ;  and 
though  the  inhabitants  of  the  universe  were  within  the 
spirit's  ken,  this  personal  accountability  is  as  strictly 
alone  and  unshared,  as  if  no  being  were  throughout 
immensity  but  the  spirit  and  its  God.  The  word  writ- 
ten in  the  sacred  book,  declares  that  "  every  one  of  us 
shall  give  account  of  himself  to  God,"  and  this  is  but 
a  transcript  of  an  earlier  word,  of  "  the  law  written  in 
the  heart." 


. 


THE   CONTINUITY   OF   LIFE. 


JOSHUA  x.  12. 

SUN,  STAND   THOU  STILL   UPON   GIBBON  ;    AND   THOU,  MOOS,  IN   THE 
VALLEY  OF   AJALON  ! 

f 

SUN,  stand  thou  still !  How  often  is  this  the  prayer  of 
the  heart !  O  why,  think  some,  should  rising  and  set- 
ting suns  bear  me  so  rapidly  out  of  my  youth  !  so  soon 
take  away  my  pleasures !  so  soon  take  away  my 
beauty  and  my  strength !  Why  do  days  so  pass  into 
weeks,  and  weeks  into  years,  and  years,  not  creep  but 
fly,  until  we  tremble  as  we  count  them  !  Why  is  time 
so  inexorably  rapid,  and  so  cruel  in  his  rapidity !  Why 
take  bloom  from  the  cheek,  and  buoyancy  from  the 
step  !  Why  so  freeze  the  blood,  and  why  so  bleach 
the  hair  !  O  sun,  stand  thou  still,  and  let  not  my  life, 
and  all  that  is  fresh  and  ardent  about  my  life,  and  in  it, 
be  carried  off  before  I  have  enjoyed  them,  —  almost 
before  I  have  felt  them  ! 

O  sun,  stand  thou  still,  desires  another,  that  I  may 
"  pull  down  my  barns  and  build  greater ;  that  I  may 


THE    CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE.  47 

have  wherein  to  bestow  my  fruits  and  my  goods ;  that  I 
may  say  to  my  soul,  Soul,  thou  hast  much  goods  laid  up 
for  many  years  to  come ;  take  thine  ease,  eat,  drink, 
and  be  merry."  O  sun,  stand  thou  still,  lengthen  out 
the  day  of  toil,  that  my  hirelings  and  my  slaves  may 
work  the  longer,  and  that  I  may  grow  rich  the  more 
abundantly  ! 

How  contrary  the  prayer  would  be  with  others. 
Not,  sun,  stand  thou  still ;  but,  O  sun,  hasten  on  thy 
way  !  hasten  on,  O  sun,  and  bring  me  tidings  from  the 
absent !  hasten  on,  O  sun,  and  bring  me  the  expected 
iriumph  !  hasten  on,  O  sun,  and  let  the  day  of  revelry 
appear !  be  not  so  slow  and  lingering  jn  thy  course  ; 
weary  me  not  with  waiting,  but  speed  me  to  the  hour 
for  which  my  soul  so  yearns  !  Hasten  on,  O  sun  ! 
Let  the  time  be  quick,  which  is  to  glorify  my  name 
and  crown  my  ambition  ;  which  is  to  crush  my  ene- 
mies and  to  exalt  myself. 

Hasten  on,  O  sun  !  exclaims  another.  Let  me  have 
the  quiet  and  consoling  night ;  let  my  tortured  eye 
have  its  shadow,  and  my  burning  head  its  coolness. 
Hasten  back,  O  sun  !  cries  such  a  one  again  ;  bring  to 
my  watching  sight  the  beauty  of  thy  morning  beams. 
Chase  away  this  killing  darkness,  which  weighs  down 
my  spirit  with  its  dismal  heaviness  ;  wake  up  the 
heavens,  cheer  the  earth,  bring  to  my  fainting  heart 
the  music  and  the  hope  of  a  new  day. 


48  THE   CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE. 

Hasten  on,  O  sun  !  sighs  the  prisoner.     Hasten  on, 

0  sun  !  so  quicken  thy  pace,  that  days  may  be  hours, 
and  hours  be  shortened  into  minutes  !     Hasten  on,  0 
sun,  that  the  term  of  my  captivity  be  fulfilled  ;  that 

1  may  once  again  walk  unfettered  among  men  ;  that  I 
may  tread  the  green  pastures,  and  breathe  the  untainted 
air. 

Sun,  stand  thou  still !  murmurs  the  sentenced  crimi- 
nal, whose  last  sun  is  shining.  O  sun,  stand  thou  still, 
and  give  me  some  more  of  life  !  Let  this  heart  pant 
yet  longer  ;  let  this  warm  blood  flow  on !  keep  off  the 
moment  which  brings  with  it  the  sound  of  death !  0 
move  not,  as  thou  art  moving,  with  rapidity  thus  terri- 
ble !  do  not  quicken  the  pendulum,  but  retard  it !  pro- 
long the  intervals  which  are  the  measures  of  thy  speed, 
and  check  those  deadly  vibrations  that  echo  mortality 
in  every  beat ! 

But  not  for  wishes,  prayers,  not  for  enjoyment  or 
despair,  does  the  sun  stand  still  or  hasten  onward. 
Bright,  serene,  but  inexorable,  the  sun  moves  onward 
through  immeasurable  space,  with  his  group  of  planets 
around  him  ;  ours,  with  its  myriads  of  animated  beings 
among  them,  —  at  once  the  cradle  and  the  grave  of 
associated  life  and  death.  The  planet  turns  upon  its 
axis,  and  revolves  about  the  sun  ;  but  suns  greater  than 
ours,  with  their  systems,  travel  onward  and  ever  through 


THE   CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE.  49 

the  realms  of  space.  The  hosts  of  worlds,  by  their 
vastness,  are  beyond  all  compass  of  locality  and  time  ; 
they  are  only  to  be  comprehended  within  immensity 
and  eternity.  These  views  are  given  us  by  the  sages 
and  the  teachers  of  science  ;  and  they  are  written  for 
our  learning,  for  lessons  of  wisdom,  and  lessons  of  hu- 
mility. We  are  involved  in  this  universal,  unceasing, 
continuous,  resistless  motion.  We  are  encompassed 
by  it,  in  our  material  relations,  subject  to  it ;  and  our 
life,  in  these  relations,  and  all  that  depends  on  them, 
stands  no  moment  still. 

Life  to  opening  consciousness  is  a  novelty,  and  full 
of  wonder.  Curiosity  is  the  philosophy  of  childhood  ; 
and  most  quick,  most  diligent,  and  most  honest  is  its 
teaching.  Interest  attaches  to  every  thing  around 
childhood,  and  so  every  thing  fastens  its  attention. 
The  child  does  not  analyze,  but  enjoy ;  and,  life  not 
logic,  is  the  general  principle  in  the  child's  mental 
experience.  The  child  puts  his  own  life  into  whatever 
he  perceives,  so  that  all  being  to  him  is  animate,  and 
thus  he  feels  with  it ;  and  in  his  own  way  converses 
thus  with  nature.  Sun,  moon,  stars,  trees,  flowers,  live 
to  him.  In  this  sense  the  child  is  a  poet,  and  the  poet 
is  a  child.  The  poet  is  the  everlasting  child ;  but  he  is 
more,  —  he  is  likewise  the  everlasting  man ;  and  he  is 
4 


50  THE   CONTINUITY   OF   LIFE. 

therefore  the  most  exalted  poet,  in  whose  genius  there 
is  most  of  innocence  and  most  of  wisdom. 

But,  unlike  the  poet,  the  child's  existence  is  all  in 
the  present ;  it  is  an  existence  which  has  neither  past 
nor  future.  It  is  in  the  senses,  in  the  first  wants  of 
animal  being,  in  affections  few,  kindred,  and  instinctive. 
But  as  intellect  begins  to  think,  as  fancy  gathers  analo- 
gies and  images ;  as  fancy  and  intellect  act  upon 
sensations ;  as  memory  stores  the  mind  with  incidents, 
and  adds  firmness  to  readiness  of  impression  ;  existence 
becomes  enlarged,  it  is  raised  out  of  the  present,  it 
catches  glimpses  of  the  distant,  and  it  looks  into  the 
future.  But  this  future  is  all  of  this  world,  and  this 
world  seems  to  youth  immortal. 

The  future  of  youth  is  deathless  and  endless ;  and 
though  it  beholds  age  failing  under  the  weight  of  years ; 
though  it  may  have  wept  scalding  tears  in  the  house  of 
mourning,  and  sobbed  on  the  margin  of  the  fresh-made 
grave,  —  they  are  facts  with  which  it  cannot  connect 
itself  in  any  intimate  sense  of  reality.  Though  this  era 
of  life  is  transient  as  any  other,  it  has  a  kind  of  mental 
permanence,  from  its  endearment  to  memory,  and  its 
attractiveness  to  imagination.  And  in  a  true,  natural, 
unperverted  childhood  and  youth  ;  a  childhood  and 
youth  that  have  had  fair  justice  done  to  their  spontane- 
ous qualities,  there  is  much  to  render  them  thus  endear- 


THE    CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE.  51 

ing  and  attractive.  The  things  that  belong  to  such  a 
childhood,  such  a  youth,  are  indeed  sweet  and  lovely, 
The  illusions  that  belong  to  it  are  beautiful ;  the  dim 
mystery  around  the  studded  canopy  of  the  skies  ;  the 
desire  to  touch  the  horizon  on  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
the  necromancies  of  night ;  the  voices  of  spirits  ;  the 
romances  of  Fairy  land  ;  the  tales  of  Araby  ;  the  love 
of  light,  and  gaiety,  and  flowers  ;  the  enjoyment  of 
action  ;  the  transmission  of  its  own  feelings  to  sur- 
rounding objects  :  sympathies  with  the  life  of  nature  ; 
untaught  inquiries  into  the  profundities  of  existence, — 
these  are  all,  not  of  common,  but  even  of  sublime 
interest ;  and  not  the  elements  of  poetry  only,  but  the 
germs  also  of  philosophy.  The  affections  that  belong 
to  such  a  childhood,  such  a  youth,  are  pure  :  the  love 
of  kindred  ;  the  joy  of  confidence ;  the  disinterested 
kindness  ;  the  unstained  tears  of  pity  ;  the  unsuspecting 
charities  which  spring  up  in  the  soul,  yet  unspoiled  by 
contact  with  the  world  ;  the  frank  and  generous  friend- 
ship, which  pretension  or  hypocrisy  has  never  yet 
corroded ;  the  depth  and  struggle  of  undefined  sensa- 
tion ;  the  cheerfulness  and  the  fervor,  that  cause  the 
face  of  heaven  to  shine  more  brightly,  and  the  stream 
of  joy  to  flow  more  copious  and  more  sparkling,  and 
the  pulse  to  beat  stronger  in  the  bosom,  and  the  blood 
to  rush  warmer  in  the  veins.  The  disappointments, 


52  THE   CONTINUITY   OF   LIFE. 

which  originate  so  many  evil  dispositions  in  after-life, 
are  yet  hidden  from  youth.  The  lottery  of  life,  yet 
undrawn,  has  not  given  the  lie  to  expectation ;  expe- 
rience has  not  worn  out  pleasure,  nor  laid  bare  the 
fallacies  of  hope ;  emulation  has  not  yet  commenced 
the  hard  strife  of  worldliness  ;  as  yet  success  provokes 
not  the  hatred  of  jealousy,  nor  is  failure  darkened  by 
the  envy  of  despair. 

How  natural,  then,  that  we  should  cling  to  whatever 
is  associated  with  our  childhood  and  our  youth.  Youth 
is  so  pleasant,  that  it  is  hard  ever  to  think  it  gone,  — 
utterly,  absolutely,  and  forever  gone.  Nay,  we  would 
fain  believe  it  yet  remaining,  in  spite  of  wrinkles  and 
white  hairs !  —  An  old  age  of  virtue  has  many  and 
noble  compensations ;  the  experience  that  well-used 
years  have  left ;  the  repose  that  honest  toil  has  earned  ; 
the  reverence  that  merit  commands  ;  the  willing  hom- 
age that  is  paid  to  wisdom  ;  —  but  to  youth,  only,  belong 
the  excitements  of  impulse,  and  the  mystic  charms  of 
pursuit.  As  our  sun  climbs  to  the  meridian,  we  think 
not  of  its  setting ;  as  it  passes  the  meridian,  we  are 
not  zealous  to  reckon  its  degrees  ;  when  it  is  almost 
below  the  horizon,  we  turn  back,  and  wistfully  we  gaze 
upon  its  reflected  image  in  the  sky.  If  we  ever  had 
things  good  or  happy  in  our  lives,  the  thought  of  our 
youth  recalls  them,  and  it  recalls  them  with  all  the 


THE    CONTINUITY   OF    LIFE.  53 

poetry  that  belongs  to  the  Past  of  individual  experience. 
It  awakens  memories  of  the  most  sacred  relations,  of 
the  freshest  affections,  of  the  noblest  friendships,  of  the 
deepest  hopes,  of  the  most  generous  aims  ;  and  though 
disappointment  or  satiety,  or  guilt  or  sorrow,  may  since 
have  intervened,  yet  such  memories  and  meditations 
have  an  influence  for  good,  even  if  their  beauty  should 
be  pallid  with  sadness. 

It  is  probable,  however,  that  in  one  period  of  life 
memory  dwells  upon  the  past  with  as  much  of  illusion, 
as  in  another  hope  looked  onward  to  the  future.  Child- 
hood and  youth,  even  when  not  unblessed,  have  their 
sorrows  and  their  sins,  mental  anguish  and  moral  pain, 
—  pain  often  amounting  to  remorse  ;  and  though  they 
may  not  tell  such  feelings,  or  indeed  know  how  to  tell 
them,  it  is  not  less  certain  that  they  have  them.  I  am 
fully  persuaded,  without  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  that 
children  often  endure  a  keenness  of  misery,  of  which 
we  form  no  conception  ;  and  I  am  also  persuaded,  that 
if  we  reflected  more  on  the  inward  history  of  our  own 
own  early  years,  we  should  do  more  justice  to  the 
feelings  of  childhood.  Look,  therefore,  on  childhood 
thoughtfully  and  pitifully.  Cloud  not  any  of  its  inno- 
cent delights  ;  and  because  even  childhood  is  human, 
it  must  have  sorrow,  but  add  not  to  its  sorrow ;  because 
even  childhood  is  human,  it  cannot  have  unmingled 


54  THE    CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE. 

bliss,  rob  it  of  no  bliss  that  nature  allows  it.     Look 
upon  childhood  gently  and  reverently. 

Being,  in  childhood,  it  is  true,  is  limited  ;  limited  in 
its  dimensions,  senses,  affections,  passions, —  but  it  is 
embosomed  in  the  infinite,  and  among  its  first  ideas  is 
that  of  the  boundless.  We  awaken  into  life  with,  a 
vague  sense  of  its  grandeur.  We  fancy  that  we  can 
reach  the  sky  which  rests  upon  the  mountain,  but  the 
weariness  with  which  we  pass  through  the  measure  of 
a  few  fields,  tells  us  in  what  a  big  world  we  are  living. 
The  stars  seem  near,  and  we  think  that  we  could  grasp 
them,  but  soon  we  begin  to  suspect  the  vastness  of  the 
lighted  dome,  and  then  there  dawn  upon  our  faculties 
glimpses  of  the  measureless  universe  of  God.  O  won- 
derful period,  when,  within  the  little  brain  and  bosom, 
there  lie  enfolded  the  germs  of  all  thought,  all  action, 
all  passion,  all  genius,  and  power,  and  dominion  ;  of 
virtue  and  of  guilt,  of  glory  and  of  shame,  of  rapture 
and  despair.  When  you  behold  a  child  gladsome  in  the 
sun,  look  not  on  through  the  gloom  of  your  own  worldly 
knowledge,  but  rather  try  to  catch  some  brightness  from 
its  unsuspecting  joy.  Let  it  have  the  joy  itself  can 
make  ;  leave  it  by  the  streamlet ;  let  it  roll  among  the 
flowers  ;  let  it  chase,  but  not  kill  the  butterfly  ;  let  it 
prance  and  run  in  the  ecstasy  of  motion  ;  let  it  prattle, 
as  if  unheard,  its  own  invented  tragedies  and  comedies. 


THE    CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE.  55 

If  it  smile,  give  it  your  kindest  look  ;  if  it  weep,  kiss 
away  its  tears  ;  if  it  be  weary,  take  it  to  your  bosom, 
lay  the  hand  of  blessing  on  its  head,  whisper  the  word 
of  peace  to  its  heart,  put  a  simple  prayer  upon  its 
lips,  —  but  never,  never  awaken  its  fears  or  rebuke  its 
hopes,  or  chill  its  exuberance,  by  casting  over  it  the 
influence  of  your  own  seared,  faded,  discontented, 
worn-out  experience. 

But  soon  that  youth,  which  once  appeared  as  endless, 
is,  distinctively,  no  more,  and  we  find  ourselves  en- 
gaged in  the  actions  and  interests  of  the  world,  with 
such  strength  of  faculty  and  purpose  as  we  have. 
Then  begins  the  real  history  of  life.  Behold  the  stir- 
rings of  civilized  men,  —  how  wide,  how  deep,  how 
multifarious,  and  how  sustained.  Go  to  the  courses  of 
travel,  and  crowds  are  there  ;  go  to  the  places  of 
commerce,  and  crowds  are  there;  go  to  the  courts 
of  law,  and  crowds  are  there  ;  go  to  the  camps  of 
armies,  and  crowds  are  there  ;  go  to  the  legislatures  of 
nations,  and  crowds  are  there ;  go  to  the  abodes  of 
wealth,  and  crowds  are  there ;  go  to  the  receptacles  of  in- 
digence, and  greater  crowds  are  there  ;  go  to  the  houses 
of  feasting,  and  crowds  are  there  ;  go  to  the  houses 
of  mourning,  and  the  solitary  are  there.  But,  further, 
behold  what  these  crowds  have  done,  and  are  doing. 
They  have  changed  the  desert  into  a  fruitful  field ; 


56  THE    CONTINUITY    OF   LIFE. 

they  have  built  these  cities  ;  they  have  adorned  and 
enriched  them ;  every  structure,  desirable  and  grand, 
is  the  creation  of  their  strength.  They  have  formed 
the  roads  that  intersect  the  land  ;  they  have  made  and 
manned  the  fleets  that  traverse  the  sea ;  whatever  pro- 
claims the  dominion  of  power,  skill,  labor,  art,  and  all 
combined,  they  have  accomplished.  They  have  com- 
pleted wonders  which  astonish  us ;  they  will  prepare 
for  wonders  which  will  astonish  others.  To  limit  our 
inspection  of  these  things  merely  to  the  outside  would 
leave  but  a  very  inadequate  impression.  Going  below 
the  visible,  we  see  in  them  marvellous  results  of 
thought,  patience,  industry,  force,  passion,  genius.  We 
see  in  them,  also,  things  that  must  have  been  occasions 
of  the  strongest  excitements,  and  things  that  link  them- 
selves still  with  much  of  strife  and  selfishness.  Feel- 
ings, however,  of  the  good  and  true  are  not  absent. 
These  are  the  things  of  man's  maturity  ;  and  every 
honest  and  active  man  has  his  part  in  the  life,  of  which 
they  are  the  outward  signs.  x 

But  though  men  work,  in  a  great  measure,  collec- 
tively, they  do  not  live  collectively ;  the  deeper  life  is 
in  the  breast  or  in  the  home,  —  and  this,  especially,  is 
woman's  life.  Within  the  breast  are  the  passions,  — 
some  that  spend  their  force  in  the  world,  and  some  that 
exhaust  themselves  within  ;  some  that  will  not  reveal 


THE   CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE.  57 

themselves,  and  some  that  cannot.  Within  the  breast 
and  within  the  home  are  the  affections,  with  their  most 
exacting  cares,  and  their  most  rewarding  pleasures; 
and  out  of  the  noises  of  the  world,  or  in  those  hours 
when  such  noises  are  subdued,  we  will  not  believe  that 
earth  is  poor  in  the  number  of  the  breasts  and  the 
homes,  —  whose  affections,  whose  thoughts,  true  to 
their  cares,  abound  in  their  reward.  Gain  what  tri- 
umphs a  man  may,  —  fortune  in  business,  applause 
among  nations,  favor  with  rulers,  love  among  the 
people,  a  name  to  last  in  literature,  admiration  in  the 
senate,  glory  in  the  field,  —  if  his  inward  and  his  near 
life  is  bad  or  barren,  he  is  unhappy  ;  and  though  the 
splendor  of  his  circumstances  may  conceal  the  malady 
of  his  spirit,  it  cannot  cure  it. 

1  have  not  mentioned  the  moral  and  religious  feel- 
ings, because  they  should  not  mark  any  distinct  stage 
of  life,  but  be  in  the  whole  of  it  a  continuous  and  un- 
broken inspiration.  But  the  passions,  labors,  and  the 
affections,  if  they  do  not  find  their  end  with  the  end  of 
maturity,  they  begin  their  strength  with  the  beginning 
of  it.  We  speak,  of  course,  with  no  strict  accuracy  ; 
for  though  we  may  note  an  era  of  life,  when  its  char- 
acteristics became  manifest,  we  have  no  faculty  so  keen 
as  to  discover,  infallibly,  its  commencement  or  its 
conclusion.  But,  rudely  considered,  we  seem  in  our 


53  THE    CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE. 

maturity  for  a  while  to  stand  ;  we  look  before  and 
after ;  in  the  opening,  life  is  all  in  the  future ;  in  the 
close,  life  is  all  in  the  past ;  but  in  maturity,  the  future 
and  the  past  appear  to  divide  it  equally  between  them  ; 
experience  sobers  hope,  —  but  hope,  there  is  yet  enough 
to  brighten  memory. 

A  few  years  roll  forward,  —  and  hope  there  must  be 
to  cross  the  boundary  of  Time,  or  the  memory  of  life, 
instead  of  being  to  us  the  dawn,  the  morning  of  immor- 
tality, is  but  an  atomic  spark  in  the  boundless  gloom  of 
nothingness.  I  speak  thus  of  life  under  no  prompting 
of  an  uncheerful  spirit.  Throughout  these  remarks  I 
have  kept  in  view  a  full  and  complete  earthly  life  ;  full 
in  the  largest  measure  of  its  years  ;  complete  in  all  the 
faculties  of  body  and  of  mind  ;  complete  in  all  the 
relations  of  a  social  and  civilized  humanity.  If  we 
take  earth  and  time  as  the  measure  of  human  exist- 
ence, a  life  thus  ordered  is  all  but  perfect.  It  is  then 
to  the  age  of  such  that  I  refer ;  not  to  the  age  of  one 
defiled  with  early  vices  ;  not  to  the  age  of  one  broken 
with  afflictions,  overclouded  with  disappointments  ;  not 
to  the  age  of  one  made  solitary  by  strokes  of  death, 
silent  and  successive,  that  cut  down  associates  as  they 
became  friends,  and  children  as  they  became  com- 
panions ;  not  to  the  age  of  a  life  so  confused  by 
reverses,  failures,  and  mistakes,  as  to  seem  not  only 


THE   CONTINUITY    OF   LIFE.  59 

aimless,  but  anomalous;  no, —  not  to  such  do  I  refer, 
but  to  the  hale  and  healthy  age  of  a  vigorous,  and,  in 
the  worldly  sense,  a  successful  life. 

Youth  is  of  the  future  —  maturity,  of  the  future  and 
the  past — childhood  has  nothing  but  the  present  — 
and  age,  nothing  but  the  past.  But  to  an  age  even 
as  felicitous  as  that  which  I  have  described,  we  can 
scarcely  conceive  the  position  to  be  cheering,  which 
has  nothing  in  one  direction  but  the  past,  and  nothing 
in  the  other  but  a  blank.  The  present,  no  old  age  can 
be  properly  said  to  have,  —  at  least,  the  sensitive  and 
energetic  present.  New  sensations,  fresh  impulses, 
quick  alternations  of  desire,  rapid  motions,  intense 
passions,  plans,  projects,  enterprises,  are  not  for  the 
dim  eye,  the  deaf  ear,  the  rigid  nerve,  the  sluggish 
blood,  and  the  conservative  habits  of  intellect  and 
opinion,  which  both  the  mental  and  physical  influence 
of  age  tend  to  consolidate.  The  tendency  in  age  to 
look  back  is  inevitable  ;  this  also  weakens  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  present.  But,  if  nothing  else  had 
such  result,  the  apparent  rapidity  of  time  to  age  would 
have  it. 

Have  I  stated  a  paradox  ?  It  may  be ;  but  I  have 
stated  a  truth,  which  I  fear  not  to  be  tested.  Explained 
it  might  be  on  abstract  principles,  but  ours  is  no  right 
occasion  for  metaphysics.  The  fact  before  us  needs 


60  THE   CONTINUITY   OF    LIFt. 

no  confirmation,  but  that  which  a  reference  to  simple 
experience  can  afford.  We  feel,  all  of  us,  that  as 
Time  slackens  the  machinery  of  life  within  us,  it  flies 
past  us  with  accelerated  speed.  It  is  marked,  not  by 
motion  in  the  soul,  but  by  shadows  on  the  dial.  The 
afternoon  has  come :  we  are  conscious  of  little  but  of 
the  lengthening  of  the  shadow.  All  we  know  is,  that 
the  evening  has  approached,  and  that  the  line  which  it 
has  reached  indicates  the  nearness  of  sunset. 

The  true  life  of  age  is  spiritual ;  and  the  life  which 
it  has  lived,  if  it  can  be  turned  to  any  value,  must  be 
subjected  to  a  spiritual  transmutation.  To  make  the 
idea  plainer,  let  us  take  a  brief  retrospect  of  the  course 
we  have  pursued,  and  place  before  us,  in  one  unbroken 
view,  the  succession  and  continuity  of  life.  Curiosity 
and  sensation,  as  we  have  noticed,  are  the  distinctive 
elements  of  childhood  ;  susceptibility  is  the  leading  one 
of  youth ;  strength,  passion,  feeling,  will,  all  that  con- 
stitutes character,  belong  to  maturity ;  reflectiveness  is 
the  prominent  attribute  of  age. 

Now  what,  according  to  this  order,  would  be  the 
distinguishing  condition  of  each  stage,  supposing  that  a 
right  culture  be  joined  with  nature  ?  We  will  not  go 
into  particulars ;  but  how  should  we  broadly  designate 
each  period,  —  conceive  each  as  it  ought  to  be  ? 
Should  we  not  specify  childhood  as  the  period  of  spon- 


(  THE    CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE.  61 

taneousness,  —  that  of  youth,  the  period  of  discipline, — 
that  of  maturity,  the  period  of  action,  —  that  of  age, 
the  period  of  tranquillity  ?  In  childhood  we  should 
look  for  simplicity,  —  in  youth  for  teachableness,  —  in 
maturity  for  diligence,  —  in  age  for  wisdom.  The 
affections  proper  for  each  we  should  look  for  in  each, 
modified  in  each  by  the  moral  form  and  tendency  inci- 
dent to  its  development ;  in  childhood  by  trustfulness  ; 
in  youth  by  generosity ;  in  maturity  by  devotedness, 
and  the  spirit  of  sacrifice  ;  in  age  by  tenderness,  and 
the  calmness  of  wisdom  ;  and  while  we  would  not 
exclude  age  from  hilarity  and  enthusiasm,  we  would 
not  absolve  youth  from  self-denial  and  self-culture. 
And  these  are  bound  one  to  another  by  the  law  of 
sequence  ;  and,  if  not  interpreted  too  literally  and 
strictly,  we  should  say  in  the  order  of  cause  and  effect. 
We  should  seek  for  the  issue  of  a  spontaneous  child- 
hood in  the  discipline  of  youth  ;  and  for  the  issue  of  an 
instructed  youth  in  the  action  of  maturity ;  and  for  the 
issues  of  an  active  maturity  in  the  tranquillity  of  age. 
It  were  delusion  to  suppose  that  Memory  should  not 
often  appear,  as  an  accusing  angel,  to  disturb  this  tran- 
quillity, and  that  conscience  should  not  admit  the  accu- 
sation ;  but  memory  we  should  also  expect  to  be  often 
to  it  an  angel  of  light,  in  whom  the  voice  of  the  past 
was  a  message  of  good-will.  It  were  delusion  to  sup- 


V4  THE   CONTINUITY   OF   LIFE. 

pose  that  this  tranquillity  must  not  be  shaken  by  many 
painful  agitations ;  but  we  would  trust  that  they  would 
not  reach  its  centre,  —  firm  and  steadfast  in  a  faith  and 
hope  which  secured  it  against  every  vicissitude  of  time. 

Conceive  life  otherwise,  —  and  we  may  not  simply 
conceive  it,  —  we  can  see  it  and  we  can  feel  it.  Con- 
ceive much  in  each  portion  of  life  to  be  ineptitude  or 
misuse.  If  childhood  is  lost,  or  to  the  degree  it  is  lost, 
youth  is  injured ;  and  so  to  the  end,  in  the  measure  of 
the  preceding  neglect  or  evil.  Youth  can  never  do 
what  childhood  has  left  undone  ;  and  maturity  can 
never  act  for  youth.  Whatever  we  have  allowed  to 
pass,  we  have  allowed  to  perish.  Childhood,  youth, 
maturity,  —  when  they  once  have  gone,  are  no  more 
ours  to  re-construct,  than  the  empires  of  Rome,  Persia, 
and  Assyria.  The  last  hour  is  as  much  out  of  our 
reach,  as  the  centuries  that  lie  between  us  and  the 
flood,  —  the  last  year,  as  the  ages  that  lie  beyond  it. 

We  can  imagine  what  is  yet  worse,  —  the  order  of 
life,  not  confused,  but  reversed.  Childhood,  instead  of 
being  spontaneous  and  trustful,  may  by  poverty,  with 
the  presence  of  vice  before  it,  become  cunning,  reflec- 
tive, suspicious,  and  deceitful ;  youth  may  have « no 
training,  but  bad  training;  maturity  may  be  but  the 
hardihood  of  selfishness ;  and  age  may  not  be  wise,  but 
foolish, —  not  tranquil,  but  garrulous;  it  may  be  the 


THE   CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE.  63 

slave  of  vanities  that  rob  gray  hairs  of  honor,  —  or  of  a 
worldliness,  that  shuts  out  goodness  from  the  soul,  and 
fills  it  with  unworthy  care.  To  feel  that  the  past  is 
irrecoverable  is  melancholy  enough  ;  but  the  idea  of  an 
irremediable  present  is  an  idea  of  despair.  We  shall 
not  dwell  upon  it.  To  think  that,  at  the  best,  only 
amendment  is  possible  with  us,  not  restoration,  is  in 
itself  an  impressively  solemn  thought. 

With  Time  there  is  no  propitiation  ;  nothing  that  you 
can  give  will  stand  with  Time,  instead  of  using  it.  To 
be  sure,  as  you  can  change  from  a  good  life  to  a  bad 
one,  at  any  point,  so  you  may  indeed  change  from  a 
bad  life  to  a  good  one  ;  but  though  you  lose  the  past  in 
the  one  case,  you  do  not  gain  it  in  the  other.  Time  is 
vindictive  and  irreconcilable.  Time  accepts  no  sacri- 
fice ;  it  admits  of  neither  redemption  nor  atonement. 
It  is  the  true  avenger.  Your  enemy  may  become  your 
friend,  —  your  injurer  may  do  you  justice,  —  but  Time 
is  inexorable,  and  has  no  mercy. 

I  am  tempted  here  to  make  a  general  application  of 
this  truth.  How  often,  in  homes,  do  the  ruling  minds 
lose  sight  of  the  inevitable  law  of  continuity  under 
which  those  are  growing,  with  the  care  of  whose  exist- 
ence they  are  charged.  Upon  a  wider  sphere  we  can 
observe  a  similar  disregard.  Nations  have  their  youth 
as  well  as  individuals  ;  and  they  may  abuse  their  youth 


64  THE   CONTINUITY   OF   LIFE. 

as  well  as  individuals ;  then,  as  surely,  they  will  reap 
the  fruits  of  the  abuse,  in  an  unprincipled  career,  and 
in  premature  decay.  Rulers  commit  a  great  wrong 
against  a  people,  and  a  people  commit  a  great  wrong 
against  themselves,  whenever  they  put  expediency  for 
right,  and  whenever  they  estimate  success  alone  as 
glory.  The  future  will  disappoint  expectation  in  all 
that  the  present,  in  such  instances,  may  promise  it. 
Whatever  may  come  of  temporary  profit  to  immediate 
generations,  for  millions  there  is  prepared  an  inherit- 
ance of  trouble.  Sow  but  one  seed  of  primal  evil  in 
the  moral  soil  of  a  nation,  it  will  grow  to  be  a  tree  as 
broad  as  the  sky,  —  to  take  fruitfulness  from  the  earth 
wherein  it  is  rooted,  and  to  cover  it  instead  with  bar- 
renness and  gloom.  And  there  it  will  stand  fast,  until 
it  falls  by  its  own  corruption,  or  until  it  is  torn  up  by 
the  fiat  of  divine  judgment,  or  by  the  hurricane  of 
human  passion. 

The  individual  application,  however,  is  to  us  the  most 
important.  "  In  all  the  actions  which  a  man  performs," 
says  Owen  Feltham,  "  some  part  of  his  life  passes. 
We  die  while  doing  that  for  which  our  sliding  life  was 
granted.  Nay,  though  we  do  nothing,  Time  keeps  his 
constant  pace,  and  flies  as  fast  in  idleness  as  in  employ- 
ment. Whether  we  play  or  labor,  or  sleep,  or  dance, 
or  study,  the  sun  posts  on,  and  the  sand  runs.  An 


THE    CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE.  65 

hour  of  vice  is  as  long  as  an  hour  of  virtue.  But,  the 
difference  between  good  and  bad  actions  is  infinite. 
Good  actions,  though  they  diminish  our  time  here  as 
well  as  bad  actions,  yet  they  lay  up  for  us  a  happi- 
ness in  eternity,  and  will  recompense  what  they  take 
away  by  a  plentiful  return  at  last."  Wise  words  are 
these  and  good  ;  wise  and  good  they  are,  for  they  are 
true  ;  and,  because  wise  and  good  and  true,  worthy  of 
attention  and  acceptance.  Yet  the  outward  continuity 
and  change  which  make  that  which  we  call  Time,  has 
deepest  import  from  the  inward  continuity  and  change, 
with  which  they  keep  a  constant  and  steady  pace. 

Time  is  the  exponent  of  life,  but  life  has  its  continu- 
ity and  changes  in  the  soul,  and  not  in  the  continuity 
and  changes  of  the  circling  earth  around  the  sun.  No 
fact  of  emotion  or  of  action  stands  alone  ;  none  is  bound 
to  the  duration  of  its  felt  existence ;  each  is  linked  to 
each,  and  all  constitute  the  oneness  of  an  inseparable 
identity.  Within  us,  is  that  law  of  continuity,  which 
connects  one  part  of  life  with  another,  and  without 
which  there  would  be  no  wholeness  of  life.  The  law 
of  continuity  which  thus  connects  the  inward  life  itself, 
connects  it  likewise  with  the  universe,  and  with  the 
Infinite  Mind,  which  is  the  life  of  the  universe.  This 
inward  continuity  is  the  spiritual  chain  of  life,  —  and 
the  feelings,  the  thuoghts,  the  desires,  the  memories, 
5 


66  THE   CONTINUITY   OF   LIFE. 

the  habits,  which  it  binds  or  holds  together,  are 
strong  to  lift  us  up  to  peace,  or  to  pull  us  down  to 
misery. 

However  the  inward  life  may  be,  it  is  the  changes  of 
the  outward  that  mark  its  course.  Look,  I  pray  you,  on 
the  blithesome  boy  who  lingers  and  loiters  on  his  way 
to  school ;  who  thus  lingers  and  loiters,  because  the 
vitality  that  throbs  within  him  shrinks  from  the  most 
temporary  suppression  ;  look  at  the  same  being  in  the 
lean  and  slippered  pantaloon,  when  he  loiters  and  lin- 
gers near  the  grave,  and  how  startling,  how  impressive 
is  the  contrast.  Yet,  are  they  but  too  points  in  the 
progression  of  the  same  life,  and  which  feels  that  it  is 
the  same  life.  Look  at  the  young  girl,  with  the  glow 
of  summer's  dawn  upon  her  cheek  ;  with  the  brightness 
of  heaven's  sun,  the  depth  of  its  star-light  in  her  eyes ; 
with  the  gladness  of  innocent  maidenhood  in  her  breast ; 
or  the  lights  and  shadows,  the  ecstasies  and  sorrows 
of  approaching  womanhood  flitting  athwart  her  beating 
heart,  in  visions  of  dreamy,  undefined,  but  most  impas- 
sioned prophecies  ;  look  at  her  as  she  trips  across  the 
field  with  a  step  so  gay  that  it  scarcely  bends  the 
flower ;  look  at  her  as  she  glides  through  the  mazes  of 
the  dance,  so  measured,  so  graceful,  but  yet  so  vital ; 
so  calm  in  countenance,  so  profound  in  feeling,  so 
simple  in  manner,  so  fathomless  in  enthusiasm,  so  little 


THE    CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE. 


67 


comprehended  by  superficial  gazers,  and  such  a  mys- 
tery even  to  herself!  Look  at  her  once  again  in  the 
decline  of  age,  and  here  again  we  have  extremes  insep- 
arably united,  but,  outwardly,  in  stern  contrast. 

And  thus  does  life  go  on,  until  Death  accomplishes 
the  catastrophe  in  silence,  takes  the  worn  frame  within 
his  hand,  and,  as  if  it  were  a  dried-up  scroll,  crumbles 
it  in  his  grasp  to  ashes.  The  monuments  of  kingdoms, 
too,  shall  disappear.  Still  the  globe  shall  move ;  still 
the  stars  shall  burn  ;  still  the  sun  shall  paint  its  colors 
on  the  day,  and  its  colors  on  the  year.  What,  then,  is 
the  individual,  or  what  even  is  the  race  in  the  sublime 
reckonings  of  Time  ?  Years,  centuries,  cycles,  are 
nothing  to  these.  The  sun  that  measures  out  the  ages 
of  our  planet  is  not  a  second-hand  on  the  great  dial  of 
the  universe. 

There  is,  however,  that  in  our  race,  which  Time,  in 
its  most  tremendous  movements,  cannot  exhaust ;  the 
continuity  of  life,  sympathy,  conscience,  reason,  which 
live  along  forever ;  the  magnetic  links  which  interpret 
the  heart  of  man  to  man  throughout  the  line  of  ages. 
This  continuity  transcends  all  force,  and  is  independent 
of  all  time.  Supremely,  continuity  exists  in  the  im- 
mortality of  the  individual,  in  the  immortality  of  the 
race.  Neither  are  right  and  truth  seared  by  time  ; 
indeed,  they  alone  escape  ;  these  we  can  hold,  without 


68  THE   CONTINUITY   OF   LIFE. 

change  and  without  accident.  Other  things  we  can  no 
more  retain,  than  we  can  stop  that  motion  which  gives 
a  night  to  every  day,  and  a  winter  to  every  year.  We 
watch  the  retiring  light ;  we  linger  on  the  clouds  it  pur- 
ples ;  we  close  our  eyes  to  muse,  and  when  we  open 
them  again,  the  darkness  is  about  us.  Our  ambitions 
and  our  vanities  wither  before  us  like  the  gourds  of  a 
night,  and  we,  as  the  prophet,  lean  over  them  and 
weep. 

But  in  such  sorrow  there  is  no  strength,  and  for  such, 
no  consolation.  Bloom  will  depart  from  the  field,  and 
splendor  from  the  grove  ;  the  seed-time  will  come,  and 
the  harvest  pass  away  ;  and  on  us  too,  if  our  year  of 
life  continues,  winter  will  fall.  We  cannot,  for  our 
wish  or  for  our  bidding,  expect  the  sun  to  stand  still, 
nor  the  moon  to  stop  her  course  ;  fruitless  would  be  our 
word,  however  vehement  our  desire  ;  though  we  should 
cry  out  with  the  collected  supplication  of  mankind, 
"  O  sun,  stand  thou  still  upon  Gibeon ;  and  thou, 
moon,  in  the  valley  of  Ajalon  !  "  There  is  no  Gibeon 
in  life,  upon  which  we  can  rest  for  a  moment,  the 
morning  or  the  noon-tide ;  there  is  no  Ajalon  in  age, 
whereon  we  can  force  the  moonlight  to  repose  beyond 
its  appointed  hour.  We  cannot  rekindle  the  morning 
beams  of  childhood  ;  we  cannot  recall  the  noontidr 
glory  of  youth  ;  we  cannot  bring  back  the  perfect  day 


THE    CONTINUITY    OF    LIFE.  69 

of  maturity  ;  we  cannot  fix  the  evening  rays  of  age,  in 
the  shadowy  horizon ;  but  we  can  cherish  that  goodness 
which  is  the  sweetness  of  childhood,  the  joy  of  youth, 
the  strength  of  maturity,  the  honor  of  old  age,  and  the 
bliss  of  saints. 


THE   STRUGGLE   OF   LIFE. 


EPH.  Ti.  12. 

WE  WRESTLE  NOT   AGAINST   FLESH    AND   BLOOD,  BUT   AGAINST  PRIN- 
CIPALITIES,  AGAINST   POWERS. 

MAN  combines  in  himself  in  the  highest  measure  that 
we  know  of  limited  existence,  sensation  and  activity. 
By  sensation,  he  is  a  part  of  nature,  by  activity  he  is 
out  of  nature  and  above  it.  By  sensation,  he  is  subject 
to  nature ;  but  by  activity,  nature  is  subject  to  him.  By 
sensation,  he  sinks  into  the  general  mass  of  unthinking 
being ;  by  activity,  in  the  degree  of  its  force,  elevation 
and  rectitude,  he  becomes  emancipated  from  this  mass, 
and  lives  in  the  likeness  of  God.  Between  these  two 
tendencies,  the  life  of  man  is  by  necessity  a  struggle ; 
a  struggle  in  which  the  life  is  truest  as  the  higher  ele. 
ment  prevails,  and  the  lower  one  but  serves  for  the 
unfolding  of  the  higher.  And  this  it  does,  as  we  per- 
ceive, when  we  trace  it  in  the  tendencies  of  the  species. 
Consider  man  in  his  meanest  estate,  —  he  is  then  the 
most  defenceless  of  creatures.  Nature  has  given  him 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE.  71 

no  weapons,  nor  even  instincts  of  protection,  and  of  all 
creatures  he  is  the  most  in  danger.  He  is  exposed  to 
strong  and  furious  beasts,  and,  different  from  all  other 
animals,  he  is  also  exposed  to  those  of  his  own  kind. 
Sensation  leaves  him  helpless  ;  it  is  activity,  —  that  is, 
mind,  reason,  reflection,  will,  —  that  gives  him  power. 
He  gains  sovereignty  over  beasts,  and  forms  associa- 
tions of  kindred  and  counsel  with  beings  of  his  own 
species ;  thence  all  governments.  His  naked  hand  can- 
not meet  the  multiplicity  of  his  wants,  and  so  he  seeks 
out  many  inventions ;  thence  all  the  arts. 

But  man  reflects  on  what  he  does  ;  out  of  reflection 
comes  the  method  of  doing  it ;  method  elicits  plan, 
plan  principles,  and  thence  all  sciences.  Thus,  as  art 
is  at  first  the  contrivance  of  thought  born  of  necessity, 
science  is  the  thought  separated  from  the  contrivance, 
and  expanded  by  reflection.  Out  of  this  again  come 
further  inventions  and  greater  arts.  As  man  is  at  first 
a  thinker  by  the  wants  of  sense,  he  is  afterwards  a 
thinker  by  the  wants  of  mind.  The  same  law  which 
governs  his  doing  and  his  thinking,  governs  also  his 
utterance  ;  for  both  the  wants  of  sense  and  thought,  he 
must  have  a  medium  of  receiving  and  of  imparting 
knowledge ;  thence  language,  and  ultimately  all  litera- 
tures. Within  this  brief  view,  we  have  the  cause  of 
struggle  in  man's  life,  and  the  true  direction  of  it. 


72  THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE. 

The  cause  consists  in  man's  dependence  upon  nature 
by  sensation,  united  with  his  capacity  by  activity  to  rise 
above  nature  and  to  rule  it.  The  true  direction  is 
towards  a  more  free  and  a  more  expanded  being. 

Let  us  view  this  struggle  in  relation  merely  to  life  in 
its  earthly  arrangements. 

In  the  primitive  state  of  life,  the  urgency  of  want 
leads  to  action  —  to  action  which  is  directed  to  meet  the 
urgency.  If  the  want  gets  no  farther  than  sensation, 
the  primitive  state  hardens  into  a  savage  state.  If  the 
want  become  progressive,  so  will  the  urgency  —  and 
so  will  the  activity.  The  life  advances.  In  states  far 
removed  from  the  primitive  in  what  we  call  civilization, 
the  struggle  of  life  with  the  wants  of  mere  sensation, 
has  more  tendency  to  oppress  and  to  degrade  than  to 
impel  or  to  improve.  In  the  primitive  state,  man  soon 
discovers  that  he  has  no  artificial  provision  to  depend 
on,  and  so  he  puts  himself  into  rude  and  earnest  strife 
with  nature.  He  sees  his  destiny  immediately,  and  at 
once  he  girds  himself  to  meet  it.  In  doing  this,  he 
puts  forth  his  strength,  and  feels  his  power.  He  battles 
for  his  life,  but  he  lives  in  the  consciousness  of  victory. 
In  the  civilized  state,  the  struggle  with  the  wants  of 
mere  sensation  is  very  different.  Nature  is  shut  out  by 
a  thousand  barriers.  Sea,  forest,  river  are  owned  ; 
beast,  bird,  and  fish  are  banished  or  guarded.  The 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE.  73 

strife  is  not  then  with  nature,  but  with  artificialism; 
not  with  brutes  and  elements,  but  with  men  or  circum- 
stances ;  not  in  freedom,  but  in  subjection.  The  con- 
sciousness of  strength  is  not  here,  but  that  of  weakness, 
and  life  is  not  the  prize  of  combat,  but  the  wages  of 
servitude.  Pressed  on  these  lower  wants,  life  in  civili- 
zation, depends  on  servitude  or  cunning,  and  often- 
times on  both  ;  with  sufferings  and  sins  of  both,  it 
becomes  involved  in  melancholy  complication.  The 
child  enters  the  world  without  provision  and  without 
welcome,  and,  when  it  begins  to  understand  life,  it  has 
its  earliest  cogitations  in  the  perplexing  problem  of 
how  hunger  is  to  be  allayed,  with  no  visible  means  of 
procuring  food.  The  first  attempts  at  solving  this  prob- 
lem, involved  and  knotty  as  it  becomes  in  old  society, 
are  to  many  the  beginnings  of  a  life  that  thickens  with 
crime  and  misfortune  to  the  close,  and  there  is  lost  in 
darkness. 

It  would  be  wrong  to  say  that  the  struggle  in  civil- 
ization with  such  wants  is  always  attended  with  debase- 
ment. On  the  contrary,  it  is,  in  cases  numberless, 
maintained  with  a  heroism  and  patience  that  show  how 
great  man  can  be  in  lowliness,  and  how  rich  with 
nothing  but  his  enduring  soul.  I  speak  only  of  tenden- 
cies, yet  of  tendencies,  however,  which  are  based  upon 
facts,  not  deduced  from  analogies.  Multitudes,  and 


74 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE. 


without  blame,  are  engaged  in  it  with  a  perpetual  enlist- 
ment :  in  the  worst  states  of  society  many  rise  above  it ; 
and  in  the  best  some  fall  down  to  it.  With  the  ordinary 
provisions  of  civilized  society,  the  more  difficult  struggle 
is  with  ease  and  facility.  The  struggle  is,  to  choose 
labor  and  self-coercion,  when  the  present  seems  to  offer 
indolence  and  pleasure.  This  is  the  temptation  of  our 
youth,  and  to  overcome  it,  is  to  enter  on  experience 
with  the  advantage  of  an  opening  conquest. 

While  life  is  young,  if  inclination  could  have  its 
way,  we  would  spend  it  all  in  sport  and  motion.  The 
discipline  of  school,  the  counsel  of  elders,  the  restraint 
of  parents,  clashing  as  they  do  with  the  promptings  of 
our  blood,  if  not  accepted  in  faith,  must,  of  necessity, 
be  most  cheerless  and  disagreeable.  Yet,  when  that 
faith  gives  us  victory  over  desire,  and  tramples  down 
repugnance,  we  attain  to  calm  and  bright  spots,  from 
which,  as  we  look  back,  we  can  perceive  how  true, 
and  safe,  and  wise,  and  loving,  the  guidance  was,  by 
which  we  were  directed.  And  we  perceive  also,  how 
dismal,  perplexed,  and  dark  our  lot  might  have  been, 
had  we,  instead  of  resisting  passion,  resisted  duty.  The 
resistance,  it  is  true,  cost  us  pain.  We  gave  ourselves 
to  solitude  and  study,  that,  without  obedience,  would 
have  been  hateful  drudgery.  We  denied  ourselves  the 
sunny  field  and  the  shady  wood,  when  our  hearts  leaped 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE.  75 

against  our  bosoms  to  enjoy  them.  To  be  right  was 
in  itself  sufficient,  but  rectitude  had  its  hope  and  its 
recompense  of  reward.  Lessons  ceased  to  be  tasks, 
and  in  time  they  became  knowledge  ;  knowledge  made 
us  useful,  and  with  years,  it  may  be,  made  us  wise. 
To  all,  lawful  sacrifice  and  work  have  their  due  return. 
Comfort  and  independence  abide  with  those  who  can 
postpone  their  desires,  and  wait  while  the  fruit  ripens 
which  their  toil  has  planted.  Can  you  find  any  man 
who  has  applied  or  is  applying  his  toil  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage, and  who  has  reaped  or  is  reaping  the  most 
fruit  from  it,  —  be  it  competence,  wealth,  political  emi- 
nence, professional  success,  scholarly  reputation,  —  that 
has  not  gained  his  position  by  numerous  victories  over 
opposing  solicitations.  Even  he  whom  the  world  calls 
inspired,  does  not  put  forth  his  inspiration  with  no  cost 
of  struggle. 

To  say  that  genius  needs  no  labor,  is  as  absurd  as  to 
say  it  can  be  obtained  by  labor.  Both  errors  are  alike 
exploded.  But  a  capacity  for  great  labor  belongs  to 
eminent  genius,  and  is  necessary  to  it.  When  we  look 
at  the  works  which  some  men  of  even  short  lives  have 
left,  —  to  say  nothing  on  the  toil  of  mind,  on  the  extent 
of  studies,  on  the  vastness  of  knowledge,  on  the  multi- 
farious arts  and  acquisitions  which  such  works  imply, — 
we  are  confounded  at  the  fatigue  of  hand  alone  which 


76  THE    STRUGGLE    OP    LIFE. 

must  have  been  borne  in  simply  transcribing  them. 
We  know,  moreover,  that  the  authors  of  not  a  few  of 
them  were  feeble  or  afflicted  men,  —  men  who  com- 
posed them  often  amidst  the  distractions  of  adversity, 
or  under  physical  or  mental  suffering.  But  if  men 
will  not  struggle  while  they  may,  they  will  have  to 
struggle  afterwards,  —  when  they  must.  The  boy  may 
devote  himself  to  play,  and  permit  no  check  upon  his 
instincts  ;  but  with  resulting  ignorance,  he  will  often 
have  to  encounter  sordid  hardships  and  oppressive 
labor,  from  which  education  might  have  saved  him. 
The  youth  may  give  himself  to  ease,  while  he  can  find 
support  provided  for  him  ;  but  when  that  fails,  as  fail  it 
must  with  many,  he  will  then  have  to  struggle  with  habits 
of  idleness ;  or  he  will  have  to  struggle  with  want,  which 
idleness  must  entail ;  or  he  will  have  to  struggle  with 
the  insults  which  dependent  indolence  must  endure  5 
and  besides  all,  he  must  struggle  with  his  own  goaded 
spirit,  until  it  is  scourged,  tamed,  utterly  broken  down 
to  the  abject  contentment  that  befits  his  slavery.  Even 
the  man  of  genius,  who  fails  to  close  his  eyes  and  ears 
when  the  syren  of  gaiety  smiles  and  sings ;  who  twines 
the  bay  with  the  rose  and  the  vine-leaf,  and  steeps  the 
garland  in  the  wine-cup ;  who  prefers  the  luxury  of 
musing  to  the  labor  of  meditation,  will  have  to  bear  the 
humiliation  of  a  waning  fame ;  while  others  that  have 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE.  77 

been  more  faithful,  are  rising  with  a  light  upon  the 
world  which  grows  brighter  and  brighter  towards  the 
perfect  day. 

Let  us  view  this  struggle  in  relation  to  life  in  its 
spiritual  and  everlasting  interests. 

Man  meets  resistance  in  the  outward  world  and  in 
his  senses  to  material  and  mental  effort,  but  through 
this  very  resistance,  he  puts  forth  his  effort  and  goes  on 
to  power.  But  the  obstacles  to  his  moral  and  spiritual 
advancement  are  most  within  himself.  With  these  are, 
indeed,  the  great  struggles  of  life.  Let  us  say  nothing 
of  these  tendencies  which  show  themselves  in  external 
masses  of  ruin,  that  defy  all  attempts  to  discriminate 
or  analyze  them.  And  yet,  mighty  as  they  seem,  the 
individual  soul  is  not  lost  in  them.  Thick  and  over- 
whelming as  the  clouds  of  transgression  are  which  hang 
over  our  earth,  every  drop  in  them  has  been  distilled 
out  of  a  human  heart,  and  had  relation  to  a  human  his- 
tory. Now  of  all  the  millions  of  these  histories,  each 
had  its  peculiarities,  each  had  its  own  struggles,  its  own 
trials,  its  own  measure  of  culpability,  and  its  own  share 
of  retribution.  How  few  even  of  the  worst  were  not 
conscious  of  a  fall ;  how  many  of  them  wrestled  with 
their  convictions,  hard  and  long  it  may  be  ;  how  many 
of  them,  also,  withstood  their  temptations ;  but  not  one 
of  them  escaped  the  disorder  which  moral  derangement 


78  THE    STRUGGLE    OF   LIFE. 

brings  upon  the  spirit,  and  the  gloom  which  it  casts 
upon  experience  of  the  life.  Wantonly  and  indifferent 
many  may  appear,  openly  regardless  of  all  that  is  of 
worth,  reckless  of  whatever  is  most  sacred  ;  but  the 
inward  life  and  secret  hours  have  anguish  that  is  not 
seen,  and  which  should  not,  if  it  could,  be  told. 

I  have  to  deal  with  matters  which  do  not  thus  show 
themselves,  —  struggles  that,  if  more  subtle,  are  often 
not  less  fatal.  It  is  not  needed  for  me  to  dwell  on 
distinct  cases,  which,  to  the  rudest,  the  most  blunted 
conscience,  are  acknowledged  sin.  At  such  points, 
the  struggle  is  commonly  at  an  end,  either  in  confirmed 
victory,  or  confirmed  apathy.  There  are  things  that 
grow  on  us  by  little  and  little,  which  do  not  provoke 
contest,  and  seem  at  first  scarcely  to  deserve  it,  —  that, 
like  many  despised  enemies,  become  at  last  formidable. 
Temper,  for  instance.  This  appears,  first,  in  simple 
petulance,  and,  while  connected  with  youth  and  with 
affection,  is  only  in  manner  a  pleasant  individual  exhi- 
bition of  wilfulness.  But  see  it  as  it  becomes  incrusted 
into  habit ;  as  years  grow,  observe  it  harden  into  obsti- 
nacy, or  otherwise,  as  it  may  be,  unfold  itself  in  unap- 
peasable discontent  and  irritation. 

The  miseries  which  are  caused  in  life  by  unamiable 
temper  alone,  if  one  could  see  them  in  the  mass,  or 
conceive  them  in  detail,  would  terrify  and  chill  him. 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE.  79 

How  harmless,  also,  does  vanity  appear  in  its  ordinary 
guise,  and  no  malignity  is  deeper  than  that  which  it 
can  engender.  Under  fair  address,  under  refined  ap- 
pearances, in  company  with  smooth  phrases,  it  can 
condense  into  a  hatred  that  is,  in  its  silence,  more 
deadly  than  the  fierceness  of  armies  in  their  shock. 
Imperceptible,  too,  is  the  growth  of  selfishness.  Every 
sin  may  be  resolved  into  selfishness :  but  here  I  mean 
the  selfishness  that  has  direct  application  to  one's  own 
personal  feeling  and  objects.  Slowly  and  insidiously 
it  creeps  upon  us,  and,  before  we  are  aware,  it  has 
possession  of  our  nature.  By  following  an  insect  up  a 
rock,  a  soldier  found  a  way  into  a  fortress,  that  had 
been  demed  unapproachable  and  impregnable  ;  and 
there  is  no  passion,  if  it  go  upon  the  trail  of  our  self- 
ishness, but  can  enter  the  citadel  of  the  soul  ;  and  the 
passion  which  gets  in  by  such  an  entrance,  it  will  be 
ever  the  hardest  to  expel. 

Under  these  influences,  sins  may  be  committed,  the 
guilt  of  which  we  may  not  fully  discern,  until  many 
days  and  years  have  gone,  —  sins  of  unkindness, —  sins 
of  envy,  —  sins  of  personal  desire,  —  sins  of  which  we 
may  repent,  but  never  can  forget, —  sins  which  we 
might  weep  for  till  the  fountains  of  our  tears  were  dry, 
but  which  would  still  be  burning  as  ever  in  their  memo- 
ries of  remorse,  —  sins  that  will  often  haunt  us  in  faces 


80  THE    STRUGGLE   OF   LIFE. 

of  sorrow,  that  afflict  us  the  more  bitterly  because  they 
look  on  us  with  no  anger.  If  these  did  us  no  other 
harm,  they  interfere  with  the  direction  of  our  thoughts, 
they  break  down  the  strength  of  our  faculties,  and  they 
disturb  the  unity  of  our  purpose.  These,  or  any  other 
violations  of  charity  or  justice,  of  affection  or  of  con- 
science, must  be  met  by  instant  and  complete  resist- 
ance, if  we  would  have  true  or  independent  lives.  No 
one  that  heeds  experience  will  make  little  of  slight 
neglects.  They  have  the  seeds  in  them  of  increase ; 
they  will  grow  and  multiply,  and  become  as  moral 
cankers  in  the  soul.  The  finest  sensibility  may  decay, 
and  if  not  joined  to  effort,  and  upheld  by  genuine 
activity,  it  will  die. 

It  is  in  the  tendencies,  least  iflarked  and  least  visible 
in  life,  that  we  have  the  most  to  strive  with ;  it  is  in  the 
depths  and  retirements  of  the  soul  that  the  great  battle 
must  be  fought ;  it  is  with  resistant  forces  that  come 
never  to  the  surface.  Much  is  said  about  the  ruling 
passion.  This  saying  presupposes  that  each  individual, 
with  any  marked  elements  of  character,  has  some  dis- 
tinct passion  which  governs  him.  The  inference  is  drawn 
from  observing  some  leading  habit  of  his  mind  and  of  his 
life.  This,  then,  according  to  such  philosophy,  is  the 
tendency  that  he  has  the  most  to  watch,  to  counteract, 
and  to  control.  If  the  philosophy  is  at  all  sound  in  theory, 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE.  81 

it  is  very  uncertain  of  application,  and  very  difficult  of 
practice.  To  be  of  any  efficiency,  the  individual  him- 
self must  have  the  knowledge,  and  he  himself  alone 
can  to  any  purpose  alone  act  on  it.  Thus  the  very 
centre  of  the  remedy  is  likewise  the  centre  of  the 
disease,  —  or,  more  properly,  the  same  individual  is 
patient  and  doctor  in  his  own  case,  and  must  be  so  ;  yet 
that  which  constitutes  him  patient,  is  the  most  likely  to 
baffle  and  to  blind  him  as  doctor.  For  how  is  this  pre- 
dominant passion  to  be  discovered,  or  when  ?  Before 
it  becomes  predominant,  it  is  not  within  the  conditions 
of  our  question,  and  after  it  has  become  so  it  is  beyond 
them.  The  fact  of  its  ascendancy  implies  its  strong 
dominion  over  him  who  is  called  on  to  guide  it ;  and 
he  who  needs  to  be  thg  most  watchful  of  its  lures,  it  is 
the  nature  of  these  lures  to  deceive. 

It  is  a  common  assertion,  that  a  man  is  not  the  best 
judge  of  his  own  talent  The  remark  may  be  extended 
to  the  moral  nature,  and  add, —  that  a  man  is  not  the 
best  judge  of  his  own  temptation.  What  outward 
notice  decides  to  be  a  man's  besetting  evils,  but  few 
men  will  in  the  least  acknowledge.  In  this  state  they 
are  not  separate  actions,  but  fixed  habits  ;  and  habits 
are,  of  course,  unconscious.  They  are,  moreover, 
generally  such  habits  as  are  not  scandalous,  such  as  the 
world  tolerates,  —  often  associated  with  c'oncomitants 
6 


82  THE   STRUGGLE    OF   LIFE. 

which  the  world  either  approves  or  flatters.  The  out- 
side deception  of  life  coincides  with  inside  ignorance  of 
the  heart,  and  both  unite  to  obscure  the  conscience. 
Besides,  as  respects  this  asserted  ruling  passion,  some 
views  of  it  are  incomplete  and  others  are  false. 

No  single  passion  despotically  rules  any  sane  life. 
Every  life  in  its  course  has  many  alternating  passions, 
many  conflicting  and  many  mixed  passions.  Nor  is 
there  any  object  of  a  life,  however  constant  and  pre- 
vailing the  object  may  be  in  acting  on  the  direction  of 
the  life,  that  does  not  consist  with  a  multitude  of  other 
interests  and  inclinations.  Moreover,  the  passion  which 
seems  to  rule  the  life,  was  not  originally  the  deepest  in 
the  life,  and  is  not  the  one  which  would  have  prevailed, 
if  the  will  could  have  decided.  The  dominant  habit, 
therefore,  may  be  nothing  more  than  a  substitute  for 
the  strongest  passion ;  a  man  may  be  in  a  counting- 
house,  who  longed  to  be  in  a  camp,  and  who,  as  he 
cannot  make  war,  turns  with  all  his  might  to  make 
money.  A  man  may  be  in  the  camp,  who  would  have 
been,  had  his  inclination  served  him,  in  the  cabinet,  and 
who  is  amidst  the  toils  of  war,  because  he  missed  his 
aspirings  in  the  ambition  of  peace.  Thus  do  matters 
proceed  in  the  world  ;  to  the  on-looking  eye,  the  sem- 
blance of  one  life  ;  to  the  infoeling  spirit,  the  conscious- 
ness of  another.  The  truth  is,  the  most  potent  desire 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE.  83 

of  a  man's  nature,  is  the  most  open  to  disappointment ; 
for  the  strength  of  his  hope  is  rarely  equal  to  the  force 
of  his  appreciation,  and  the  weakness  of  his  hope  com- 
municates itself  to  his  purpose.  It  is  not,  then,  at  a 
single  point  of  life,  or  on  a  single  spot,  that  we  have  to 
struggle,  but  all  around  it,  and  all  within  it. 

Happy  are  those  who  do  so  with  perseverance  and 
success,  and  who  find  as  they  advance  a  brighter  way 
and  more  confirmed  power.  Yet,  so  far  I  have  not 
surveyed  the  whole  of  the  struggle,  and  even  were  the 
victory  so  far  secure,  it  would  still  be  imperfect.  Our 
life  is  not  complete,  even  when  in  full  harmony  with 
Time  and  with  our  kind.  There  are  feelings,  senti- 
ments, capacities,  which  go  beyond  these  and  above 
them.  They  are  in  us,  and  if  comparison  can  be,  they 
are  not  only  the  most  real  things  in  us,  but  they  give  to 
whatever  also  belongs  to  us  —  reality.  Reflection  on  a 
spiritual  life  may  be,  to  some,  but  as  dreaming,  as 
words  spoken  in  sleep  —  words  with  no  meaning  and 
without  coherency.  Not  many,  however,  are  they  who 
so  think.  The  solemn  ideas  of  Christianity;  its  esti- 
mate of  the  soul ;  the  inwardness  of  its  morality  ;  its 
views  of  God,  of  Jesus,  of  life  ;  of  goodness  ;  of  immor- 
tality ;  the  grandeur  of  its  faith  and  hope  ;  the  compass 
of  its  charity ;  the  awfulness,  yet  the  consolations  with 
which  it  invests  the  death-bed,  the  grave,  the  passage 


84  THE   STRUGGLE   OF    LIFE. 

through  them,  and  the  sphere  beyond,  will  often  ask 
for  entrance  to  the  most  careless  minds,  and  if  they  do 
not  gain  it  freely,  they  will  by  force. 

There  are  no  minds  upon  which  questions  of  a  higher 
life  will  not  frequently  press  themselves  ;  and  there  are 
no  minds  that  can  shrink  from  them  into  complete  in- 
difference. A  sense  of  the  infinite  and  mysterious 
universe  in  which  they  are ;  of  the  inscrutible  being 
which  they  have,  will  often  stir  them  at  unexpected 
turns,  and  move  them  with  vast  anxieties ;  the  effects 
may  be  evanescent,  but  they  prove  the  profoundness 
and  power  of  the  inner  life.  In  this  inner  life,  too,  we 
have  to  struggle ;  we  have  to  struggle  with  the  things 
that  tend  to  deaden  it  or  to  keep  it  dormant ;  with  the 
senses,  with  the  pains,  that,  by  the  senses,  bind  us  only 
to  the  present.  '  Even  the  best  feelings  and  the  most 
innocent  enjoyments  have  their  share  in  withdrawing 
the  life  from  absolute  and  everlasting  realities,  or  from 
hindering  its  apprehension  of  them. 

It  is  hard  for  us,  in  contact  always  with  palpable 
objects,  feeling  life  mostly  in  this  contact ;  pressed  by 
demands  and  needs  that  stop  never  for  a  moment ; 
actuated  by  motives  that  by  necessity  are  near  to  us ; 
moved  likewise  by  immediate  pleasures  and  immediate 
pains  ;  it  is  hard,  I  say,  for  us,  to  bring  home  to  our- 
selves, that  aught  besides  has  any  substantial  being. 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE.  85 

And  yet  we  have  not  penetrated  into  life,  until  we  feel 
that  these  are  not  at  all  its  substance,  but  only  its  cir- 
cumstances. It  is  still  harder,  agitated  as  we  are  by 
such  a  variety  of  interests  and  desires,  with  their 
strength  within  and  their  objects  at  hand,  to  take  as  our 
law,  as  our  only  law,  the  dictates  of  invisible  power, 
and  the  injunctions  of  a  perfect,  a  passionless  will. 
And  yet,  as  that  is  the  one  which  must  prevail,  not 
against  that,  but  against  our  own  is  the  wisdom  of  the 
struggle.  That  must  rule  the  order  of  Being  ;  out  of 
the  order,  we  have  nothing  but  disappointments  and 
humiliation ;  within  it  only,  can  we  have  capacity  and 
freedom. 

In  connection  with  the  spiritual  life  itself,  we  have 
trials,  doubts,  fears,  distress  of  soul,  seasons  of  great 
and  exceeding  trouble.  Faith,  trust,  and  humility,  are 
the  only  strength  with  which  we  can  encounter  these 
trials ;  and  then,  with  patience,  we  shall  overcome,  and 
have  the  reward  in  peace.  Periods  have  been  in  the 
experience  of  some,  when  their  faith  was  simple,  when 
trust  was  childlike,  when  they  rested  meekly  on  the 
Everlasting  Father  ;  they  have  since  lost  that  expe- 
rience ;  they  have  plunged  into  a  lower  life,  and  left 
the  higher  one  so  far  away,  that  what  once  was  as 
spontaneous  as  their  breathing,  has  become  a  perplexity 
or  chimera.  But  they  have  not  found  satisfaction  ;  they 


86  THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE. 

have  only  tasted  of  mocking  luxury,  of  luxury  such  as 
that  which  comes  to  a  hungry  man  in  the  visions  of  the 
night,  that  torments  him  in  sleep,  and  disappear  on  his 
awaking.  They  have  but  wandered  in  twilight,  or  with 
changing  and  uncertain  limitation  ;  they  have  discovered 
that  what  they  esteemed  greatness  at  a  distance,  became 
littleness  as  they  approached,  and  shadow  when  they 
passed  it.  The  thoughts  of  past  experience  bring  back 
regret,  but  not  belief —  its  image  in  the  memory,  but 
no  renewal  of  it  in  the  soul.  Let  such  thoughts,  how- 
ever, be  encouraged,  for  they  may  be  the  heralds  of 
restoration  and  return. 

But  it  may  be  inquired,  shall  the  senses,  the  passions, 
the  world,  the  ordinary  occupations  and  enjoyments  of 
men,  be  exterminated  in  this  struggle  for  a  more  ele- 
vated existence  ?  Shall  victory  rejoice  amidst  the 
wrecks  of  feeling  and  memory  ;  and  the  brow  wear  the 
laurel,  only  when  the  heart  is  hardened  ?  By  no 
means ;  the  struggle  is  not  to  destroy  any  part  of  life, 
but  for  the  harmony  of  all  its  parts  ;  not  for  the  dis- 
ruption of  life,  but  for  its  unity.  The  thing  that  we 
have  to  do  with  our  inward  life,  is  to  bring  its  latent 
capacities  and  forces  into  exercise  ;  to  acquire  sove- 
reignty in  the  control  of  them,  and,  from  their  action 
and  their  uses,  derive  constant  accessions  of  energy 
and  excellence.  It  is  to  apply  the  spiritual  mind  in  the 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE.  87 

spiritual  life,  as  we  apply  the  practical  mind  in  the 
common  life  ;  it  is  to  give  us  as  grand  a  dominion  in 
the  region  of  ideas,  senses,  feelings,  and  passions,  as 
we  hold  in  the  region  of  earth,  air,  and  ocean.  It  is  in 
the  one  as  in  the  other  —  to  make  things  that  resist, 
obey  us  —  to  make  things  that  oppose,  subservient  to  us 
—  to  make  obstacles  yield  to  action,  and  become  the 
occasions  of  further  and  future  triumphs.  This  would 
be  the  science  of  the  soul,  the  philosophy  of  the  spirit, 
the  wisdom  of  the  conscience  —  a  science,  a  philo- 
sophy, and  a  wisdom,  as  much  surpassing  all  other 
science,  philosophy  and  wisdom,  as  the  everlasting  does 
the  temporary,  as  the  changeless  does  the  mutable. 

To  gain  and  grow  in  power,  —  power,  which  shall 
be  vital,  constant,  continuous,  —  is  to  cultivate  the  spir- 
itual part  of  our  being ;  and  this,  not  by  paroxysms, 
but  by  habitual,  simple,  natural  exercises  of  its  proper 
faculties.  Let  faith,  for  instance,  the  desire  for  truth, 
the  consciousness  of  God  as  all  in  all,  the  love  of  duty 
and  the  love  of  man  —  let  these  mingle  with  the  work- 
ings of  the  soul,  let  them  rather  be  its  workings,  then 
life  may  take  its  course.  There  is  no  need  to  discrim- 
inate between  the  activities  of  business  and  those  of 
religion,  for  both  in  this  high  idea  of  life  are  one  — 
they  are  the  same.  And  this  high  idea  of  life,  is  but 
the  idea  of  man's  natural  and  right  existence.  In 


88  THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE. 

prayer  or  at  the  plough,  in  the  workshop  or  in  senates, 
such  life  has  equal  dignity  —  the  only  dignity  that  man 
can  truly  have  —  the  dignity  which  consists  in  living  in 
the  order  of  his  best  nature,  and  in  the  use  of  his  best 
faculties. 

But  spiritual  action  is  only  secure  and  perfect  with 
practice.  To  minds  of  a  certain  temperament  and 
constitution,  elevation  of  thought,  of  feeling,  and  of  de- 
votion, may  give  way  to  very  fatal  errors  of  conduct. 
The  excitements  of  religion,  if  not  corrected  by  the 
soberness  of  meditation  and  by  the  diligence  of  charity, 
are  not  far  from  lower  excitements,  and  often  slide  into 
them.  Men  cannot  always,  even  in  religion,  live  in 
raptures,  and  ecstasy  may  be  as  fatal  as  despair.  The 
soul  wears  out  by  excess  even  sooner  than  the  body, 
and  turbulent  emotions  are  the  most  ruinous  of  intoxica- 
tions. It  is  hard  to  descend  from  these,  and  to  find 
only  common  objects  —  daily  routine,  vulgar  toil,  and 
unideal  duty.  The  fall  below  the  ordinary  life  may 
then  be  as  great  as  the  exaltation  was  above  it. 

And  thus  we  easily  account  for  instances  of  startling 
moral  contrasts  in  the  same  man,  which  the  world 
insists  on  placing  in  the  catalogue  of  hypocrisies. 
Though  I  die  with  thee,  yet,  will  I  not  deny  thee, 
exclaimed  Peter  to  his  Master.  Even  without  divine 
knowledge  this  would  have  warned  the  Master  of 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE.  89 

Peter's  infirmity.  In  this_  very  ardor  of  a  rash  zeal,  lay 
the  weakness  that  did  before  an  hour  deny  the  Christ 
for  whom  he  swore  to  die ;  and,  as  if  to  show  to  all 
men  how  true  character  is  to  itself,  to  whatever  it  may 
be  false  besides,  he  was  as  vehement  in  his  apostasy 
as  he  was  in  his  profession.  Had  Peter  in  his  spirit 
been  nearer  to  things  as  they  were,  he  would  not 
have  vowed  and  asseverated,  he  would  have  been  hum- 
ble, he  would  have  been  silent,  and  he  would  have  been 
faithful ;  collected  in  his  strength,  when  the  hour  came, 
he  would  have  been  superior  to  its  trial.  But  he  was 
bold  and  over-confident ;  his  enemies  caught  him  un- 
prepared, and  shame  and  defeat  befel  him.  By  com- 
bining the  fervor  of  religion  with  the  activities  of  good- 
ness, these  dangers  are  counteracted.  Nor  this  only, 
for  by  such  a  combination,  the  fervency  of  piety  is 
changed  into  a  divine  usefulness.  The  motives,  the 
doings,  the  endurance,  of  such  consecrated  excellence, 
which  come  not  with  observation,  though  as  nothing  in 

A 

the  workings  of  the  world's  noise,  are  of  the  kingdom 
of  Heaven  in  the  workings  of  the  world's  silence. 

The  highest  life  which  we  can  have  is  contained  in 
the  practical  life.  The  life  which  we  now  live,  we  live 
in  the  flesh,  and  that  is  the  life  which  we  have  to 
struggle  with  and  train,  safest,  as  I  have  shown  it  is, 
when  it  is  not  one  of  mere  sentiment  and  thought, 


90  THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE. 

however  grand  the  thought,  or  however  generous  the 
sentiment.  Ideas  and  feelings  must,  as  I  have  already 
observed,  be  combined  with  moral  discipline  and  be- 
nevolent action.  And  this  is  the  life  that  is  best  for  indi- 
viduals, and  best  for  society.  Accept  the  being  good, 
and  the  doing  of  good,  as  evidence  of  sanctity,  then 
the  communion  of  saints  would  be  a  large  one,  and 
though  still  there  must  be  struggle  in  the  soul,  less  of 
struggle  would  be  among  the  churches.  The  com- 
munion founded  on  the  doing  of  good  is  a  broad  one, 
and  they  who  are  united  in  it  agree  to  leave  many 
differences  out  of  sight.  They  work  in  peace,  they 
work  together  ;  and  not  for  the  work,  but  in  the  work, 
they  have  their  exceeding  great  reward.  And  often 
this  work  must  be  done  not  in  pleasure,  but  in  suf- 
fering. 

The  path  which  leads  to  the  mount  of  ascension  does 
not  lie  among  flowers ;  and  he  who  travels  it,  must 
climb  the  cold  hill-side,  he  must  have  his  feet  cut  by 
the  pointed  rocks,  he  must  faint  in  the  dark  valley,  he 
must  not  seldom  have  his  rest  at  midnight  on  the  desert 
sand.  It  is  no  small  thing  for  which  a  true  liver  strives. 
It  is  for  the  perfection,  for  the  sanctification  of  hu- 
manity in  himself  and  in  the  world.  It  is  not  by  ease 
that  this  is  to  be  done,  but  by  efforts  grand  and  blessed. 

Uneasy,  it  has  been  written,  is  the  head  that  wears  a 


THE    STRUGGLE    OF    LIFE.  91 

crown  ;  but  the  genuine  man,  every  real  Christian 
man,  is  a  king ;  and  he  must  meet  responsibilities  of  a 
royalty  more  solemn  than  mere  earthly  monarchs 
know,  or  would  care  to  accept.  But,  if  rest  is  not  to 
be  had  in  the  wearing  of  a  crown,  how  far  must  it  be 
from  the  carrying  of  a  cross  ?  Yet  every  Christian 
man  must  bear  a  cross  —  must  be  a  martyr  —  must 
pass  through  the  tribulation  of  his  Calvary.  But  what 
a  hallowed  power  is  that  which  can  calmly  walk  to  it 
—  which  can  silence  the  complainings  of  the  spirit, 
and  go  forth  bravely  to  the  work  of  Heaven. 


THE  DISCIPLINE  OF  LIFE. 


JOB  xii.  8. 

SPEAK   TO   THE   EARTH,   AND   IT  WILL   TEACH    THEE. 

SPEAK  to  the  earth,  and  it  will  teach  thee  of  God :  it 
will  teach  thee  in  every  blade  of  grass  of  his  creative 
power  —  in  every  unfolding  leaf  of  his  creative  wisdom 
—  in  day  and  night,  in  climate  and  season  —  in  all 
living  being,  it  will  teach  thee  of  his  ever-providing 
goodness.  Speak  to  the  earth,  and  in  the  continuity  of  its 
revolution,  it  will  teach  thee  of  order ;  in  the  dissolution 
and  renewal  of  all  that  it  contains,  it  will  teach  thee  of 
change.  Look  up  from  it  to  the  silent  heavens,  and 
you  learn  of  Eternity  ;  look  down  to  it  on  the  withering 
flower,  and  you  learn  of  Time,  yet  with  an  analogy 
infinitely  inadequate.  Speak  to  the  earth,  and  it  will 
teach  thee  of  Man.  It  will  teach  thee  that  his  visible 
existence,  in  its  longest  and  its  widest  measures,  is  but 
fleeting.  It  bears  but  few  evidences  of  its  proudest 
races ;  all  that  remain  of  them  are,  here  and  there,  a 
few  lettered  pages,  and  a  few  mouldered  stones.  The 


THE    DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE.  93 

rest  it  has  swallowed  up,  and  of  them  it  has  preserved 
neither  note  nor  name.  Embosomed  in  immensity  it 
rolls  around  the  sun,  and  now  the  clash  of  Alexander's 
battles  are  no  more  to  it,  than  the  rattle  that  diverts  a 
child,  and  the  majesty  of  Cesar's  fortunes  as  insigni- 
ficant in  its  throng  of  interests  as  the  story  of  a  beggar's 
wants.  It  will  teach  thee,  that,  now,  too,  as  ever,  it 
continues  to  absorb  the  visible,  that  the  pyramids  shall 
crumble,  that  cities  shall  turn  to  fine  dust,  that  men 
in  time  to  come  will  look  in  vain  for  Paris  or  London, 
that  wolves  shall  howl  where  monarchs  feast,  and  that 
towered  palaces  shall  arise  where  the  wild  flocks  pas- 
ture. Speak  to  the  earth,  and  it  will  teach  thee,  that 
these,  too,  will  depart,  and  be  replaced  ;  and  that, 
when  eras  shall  have  past  away,  and  be  to  other  eras 
as  if  they  never  were,  the  whole  is  not  yet  as  a  mo- 
ment, even  in  the  limited  reckonings  of  Time.  Speak  to 
the  earth,  and  it  will  teach  thee,  that  the  men  who  are 
now  living  around  thee,  who  now  constitute  the  busy 
population  of  the  globe,  —  the  wise,  the  great,  the  good, 
the  rich,  the  beautiful,  the  famed,  the  admired  —  are 
daily  and  hourly  falling  into  the  abyss  of  atoms  —  as 
well  as  the  ignorant,  the  lowly,  the  guilty,  the  poor,  the 
homely,  the  obscure,  the  despised  —  and  that  not  many 
suns  shall  have  set,  when  all  will  be  in  the  same  obli- 
vion together. 


94  THE   DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE. 

Speak  to  the  earth,  and  it  will  teach  thee  of  thyself. 
It  will  teach  that  thou  art  of  these  departing  things, 
that  every  turn  of  it  brings  thee  rapidly  to  be  of  the 
forgotten  ones.  Speak  to  the  earth,  it  cannot  leach 
thee  more.  It  gives  thee  the  lesson  of  humility  ;  it 
does  not  give  thee  the  lesson  of  hope,  it  abases  thy 
pride  ;  it  does  not  awaken  thy  faith,  it  forbids  pre- 
sumption, it  does  not  instruct  for  preparation.  Speak 
to  the  earth,  and  it  will  not  teach  thee  of  the  great  plan 
which  includes  all  things,  and  which  has  a  place  and  a 
worth  for  the  infant's  rattle  as  well  as  Alexander's 
wars,  a  place  for  the  beggar's  story  as  well  as  for 
Caesar's  fortunes.  It  will  not  teach  thee  of  the  supreme 
Wisdom,  by  which  that  plan  is  conceived,  directed,  and 
accomplished.  It  will  not  teach  thee  of  thine  own 
relations  to  that  plan,  and  how  thou  mayst  best  fulfill 
them.  For  this,  consult  a  Teacher  that  has  a  voice, 
for  earth  to  such  desire  is  dumb;  consult  Christ,  and 
he  will  teach  thee  truly  ;  consult  a  Teacher  that  has  a 
spirit ;  for  earth  to  such  yearnings  is  lifeless ;  con- 
sult conscience,  and  follow  the  promptings  of  its  higher 
inspirations ;  consult  thy  mind  in  its  full  tranquillity, 
and  respect  the  counsel  which  it  gives ;  consult  ex- 
perience, when  it  is  most  likely  to  be  impartial,  and 
take  heed  to  its  honest  warnings  and  rebukes. 

Two  kinds  of  agency  enter  into  the  discipline  of  life. 


THE    DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE.  95 

There  are  first  the  elements  that  constitute  the  matter  of 
life  itself.  These  elements  are  such  as  make  the 
inward  and  outward  history  of  the  individual  being. 
Among  these,  for  instance,  are  our  parentage,  our  early 
circumstances,  our  means  of  instruction  or  our  unavoid- 
able ignorance,  our  advantages  for  virtue  or  our  ex- 
posure to  vice,  our  examples  for  good  or  evil,  our  pe- 
culiar tendencies  and  temperaments.  Most  of  these 
begin  before  we  have  ourselves  any  part  of  a  voluntary 
nature  in  them,  before  we  have  any  dominion  over 
them.  They,  in  general,  continue  long  to  operate, 
before  we  undertake  in  any  way  to  shape  or  to  guide 
them.  In  a  multitude  of  cases,  they  meet  with  no 
guidance  or  control  whatever,  either  from  without  or 
from  within.  In  such  cases,  the  result  is  speedily 
wrought  out,  and  I  need  not  say  that  the  result  is, 
uniformly,  one  of  suffering  or  of  sin.  The  matter 
which  makes  the  history  of  life,  continues  always, 
however,  to  be  also  an  influence  of  life.  The  course 
of  our  studies,  the  activity  of  our  business,  the  nature 
of  our  opinions,  the  nature  of  our  friendships,  the  force 
of  our  affections,  our  health  and  sickness,  our  success 
or  failures,  our  poverty  or  wealth,  or  ideas  of  pov- 
erty and  wealth,  —  all,  in  fact,  that  makes  the  sum  of 
our  being,  physical,  social,  moral,  and  spiritual. 

The  second  kind  of  agency  is  that  which  we  exer- 


96  THE   DISCIPLINE    OF   LIFE. 

cise  of  ourselves,  and  upon  ourselves.  A  man  is  thus 
both  the  object  and  the  agent  of  his  own  discipline. 
This  kind  of  discipline  cannot  be  too  early  begun,  it 
cannot  be  too  late  continued.  It  may  be  too  long 
deferred,  but,  however  advanced  the  hour,  none  at  any 
time  in  the  day  of  life  should  despair  to  commence  it. 
It  is  by  this  agency  of  ourselves,  that  we  turn  all  things 
to  account,  that  we  make  them  our  true  property.  It  is 
by  this  agency,  that  we  draw  all  influences  into  the 
sphere  of  our  inward  life,  and  cause  them  to  become,  in 
part,  the  substance  of  that  life.  In  proportion  to  the 
depth,  the  power,  and  the  compass  of  this  agency,  are 
the  depth,  power,  and  the  compass  of  our  life.  With- 
out this  agency,  much  passes  arouad  and  near  us,  that 
might  be  used  to  enlarge  and  to  glorify  our  being,  goes 
wholly  to  waste,  and  to  us  is  forever  lost.  Many  an 
influence  that  we  allow  to  die,  we  might  convert  into 
living  energy,  and  many  a  good  that  is  present,  and 
at  no  cost,  but  the  taking  of  it,  we  lose  because  we 
never  perceive  it.  And  this  is  not  all  the  loss.  But 
that  which  belongs  essentially  to  ourselves,  which  forms 
the  very  vitality  of  our  souls,  fails  of  its  growth,  its 
strength,  and  its  complete  capacity.  Memories  pass 
away  in  dreams,  that  might  have  been  turned  to  fine 
principles,  and  resolves  perish  into  vacancy,  that,  if 
executed,  might  have  been  noble  works.  Designs  are 


THE    DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE.  97 

left  to  sink  into  nothingness,  that,  if  brought  out  to  the 
light  of  reality,  might  avert  occurrences  that  will  be 
pangs  to  the  hour  of  death,  or  be  benefits  to  many,  and 
blessings  to  ourselves.  Intellectual  and  spiritual  ad- 
vancement is  thus  prevented,  the  mind  given  over  to 
barrenness,  and  the  character  not  enriched,  seems  even 
worse  and  poorer  than  it  is,  either  in  motive  or  in  fact. 
The  agency  that  we  exercise  upon  ourselves,  is  the  one 
to  which  I  more  particularly  refer  in  these  remarks  on 
the  discipline  of  life. 

But  what,  we  may  ask,  is  this  discipline  to  act  on  ? 
To  this  we  may  oppose  another  question,  What  is  any 
education  to  act  on,  but,  on  the  human  being,  on  the 
soul  and  its  manifestations,  on  thought,  on  feeling,  on 
habit,  on  conduct  ? 

It  requires  some  discipline  to  think,  in  the  true  sense, 
at  all.  We  might  suppose  that  nothing  was  so  easy  as 
to  think.  What  is  it  ?  It  requires  not  to  move  hand 
or  foot,  but  to  sit  still  and  ponder.  It  appears  as  if  it 
needed  but  to  let  the  brain  work,  and  let  memory 
observe  and  register  the  result.  Certainly,  ever,  and 
ever  without  ceasing,  perceptions  are  passing  through 
the  brain,  and  consciousness  is  without  interruption, 
taking  impressions  from  the  senses,  —  but  to  arrange  and 
concentrate  these  so  as  to  extract  an  import  from  them 
for  judgment  and  the  reason,  this  is  the  hardest  task 
7 


98  THE   DISCIPLINE   OF    LIFE. 

that  man  can  undertake,  and  it  is  the  one  of  all  others 
that  he  would  avoid.  He  would,  in  general,  dig  or 
break  stones  rather  than  to  do  it. 

It  is  thus,  that  whenever  a  real  thought  is  born,  it 
first  meets  with  resistance,  but,  when  accepted,  soon 
becomes  a  tradition.  It  then  settles  as  a  fixed  point, 
becomes  the  centre  of  a  sect  or  party.  While  friends 
are  whirling  around  this,  they  imagine  their  motion 
progressive,  when  it  is  merely  circular,  and  when  they 
fancy  themselves  numberless  degrees  on  a  direct  line, 
they  have  not  extended  their  distance  by  the  smallest 
measure.  Thought  merely  in  itself  being  an  exercise, 
that  we  most  sedulously  shun,  that  we  would  by  any 
means  escape  or  evade,  it  must  be  no  common  effort  to 
think  constantly,  to  think  wisely,  to  think  vigilantly,  to 
think  on  matters  which  hold  out  no  immediate  profit  or 
reward,  things  not  palpable,  and  things  not  seen.  If 
thought  on  our  most  ordinary  affairs  is  painful,  and 
what,  if  we  could,  we  would  not  undergo,  it  is  not  to  be 
expected,  that  we  should  enter  willingly  on  thought 
which  concerns  mainly  the  order  of  our  spiritual  and 
moral  being.  It  is  not  then  in  the  least  startling,  that 
our  lives  should  be  full  of  mistakes,  of  errors,  of  pre- 
judices, of  unexamined  generalities,  which  we  count 
for  knowledge,  and  of  ignorance,  which  time  only 
serves  to  render  darker  and  more  obstinate.  For  a 


THE    DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE.  99 

man  to  think  boldly  around  himself  and  withirv,  is  no 
small  courage,  and  it  is  only  an  occasionally  brave  and 
strong  soul  that  attempts  it.  It  is  a  hard  and  self- 
denying  toil.  To  test  our  opinions  by  their  external 
evidence  or  their  intrinsic  value ;  to  separate  them  from 
influences  that,  independently  of  their  value  or  their 
evidence,  bind  us  strongly  to  them ;  to  review  our 
beliefs  and  motives ;  to  estimate,  without  sophistry  or 
illusion,  the  consequences  of  our  doings  ;  to  go  through 
all  this,  fully  and  fairly,  would  seem  little  short  of  a 
mental  martyrdom.  And  yet  the  habit  of  a  true  moral 
wisdom  is  to  be  thus  obtained. 

Now  we  know,  that  feeling  not  under  the  guidance 
of  thought  is  but  blind  impulse,  and  habits  growing 
out  of  such  impulse,  even  if  blameless,  become  only 
mechanical  routine.  Conduct  formed  of  feelings  and 
habits  thus  shaped  and  moved,  can  at  best  be  merely 
negative.  But,  though  guilt  should  not  be  in  the  life, 
life  may,  notwithstanding,  suffer  positive  and  serious 
injury.  I  will  remark  only  on  the  influence  of  feeling. 
How  many  of  the  woes  of  life  arise  from  undisciplined 
feeling.  How  many  thus  rush  into  careers,  positions, 
and  relations  for  which  they  are  not  fitted,  and  wear 
out  their  minds,  or  become  disgusted  with  existence. 
How  many,  too  impatient  to  wait  for  experience,  rushed 
on  their  path  through  an  illusive  sunshine,  and  while, 


100  THE    DISCIPLINE    OF   LIFE. 

still  dazzled  with  the  gilded  sky  beyond,  met  destruc- 
tion over  the  unnoted  precipice. 

To  speak  at  large  on  the  regulation  or  disorder  of 
feeling,  would  be  to  speak  volumes.  Take  one  error  of 
it,  which  is  mostly  an  error  of  the  young,  and  that  is, 
the  hasty  bestowal  of  confidence.  It  would  be  delight- 
ful to  live  in  perfect  trust,  to  doubt  no  one,  and  to 
believe  all.  The  spontaneous  action  of  the  soul  is  that 
alone  in  which  there  is  true  joy,  and  it  seems  a  hard 
and  a  sad  requirement,  that  any  thing  should  meet  it 
with  impediment  or  revulsion.  Were  our  nature  in 
perfect  order,  we  might  trust  entirely  to  our  intentions 
and  our  impulses,  and  with  others,  likewise,  we  might 
trust  their  intentions  and  impulses.  Words  we  might 
take  as  copies  of  thoughts,  promises  as  the  utterance  of 
intentions,  the  clasp  of  the  hand  as  the  pressure  of 
friendship,  and  the  smile  upon  the  face  as  the  sunshine 
of  the  heart ;  and  this  is  what  noble,  ingenuous,  earnest, 
simple  youth  does. 

I  would  not  lessen  this  trusting  temper  of  youth,  I 
would  only  warn  it ;  I  would  not  have  it  suspect,  but 
hesitate  ;  I  would  rather  increase  than  diminish  this 
lovely  aptitude  of  a  spirit  genuinely  young,  this  trans- 
parency of  soul,  this  lambent  cordiality  —  which,  if  the 
young  have  not,  they  have  lost  a  section  of  true  life, 
they  have  never  been  innocent  —  they  are  corrupt  by 


THE   DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE.  101 

anticipation,  they  have  become  prematurely  old.  But 
yet  I  would  indicate  a  danger  which  lies  in  life,  before 
the  wisest  and  the  best  of  the  young.  At  any  period 
of  life,  we  see  others  much  through  the  medium  of 
ourselves,  and  never  more  so  than  in  the  first  period. 
We  cannot  suppose,  that  they  are  otherwise  than  we 
are,  and  we  feel  that  we  would  deal  by  all  with  open- 
ness, candor,  generosity,  and  justice.  We  have  not  yet 
learned  what  effect  life  may  have  upon  us ;  we  know 
not  how  it  may  complicate  our  spirits,  how  it  may 
vulgarize,  soil,  and  debase  us.  Poverty  or  wealth,  dis- 
appointment, trouble,  betrayal,  the  discovery  of  insin- 
cere and  hollow  men,  have  not  yet  tried  us,  —  if  things 
have  any  good  seeming,  we  take  them  for  even  better 
than  they  seem,  and  we  price  them  with  our  own 
exaggerated  estimate.  But,  some  time,  discovery  will 
come,  and  though  many  may  stand  the  test  of  years, 
yet  some  will  prove  but  worthless.  It  is  then,  if  we 
have  not  ourselves  turned  out  castaways,  that  we  may 
be  tempted  to  give  up  our  trust,  and  cease  to  have 
human  faith.  But  this  we  must  not  do.  The  cynic  is 
worse  than  the  dupe  ;  and,  though  we  should  have  been 
disappointed  in  every  individual  with  whom  we  have 
ever  held  intercourse,  confidence  in  our  Maker  imposes 
confidence  in  our  kind. 

Take  another  error  —  as  to  feelings  —  and  this  is 


102  THE    DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE. 

an  error  peculiar  to  no  part  of  life.  If  we  are  con- 
scious of  no  malice,  we  often  fancy  that  we  can  inflict 
no  hurt.  Our  feelings  are,  upon  the  whole,  charitable, 
humane,  pitiful.  We  would  not  for  all  the  gold  of  earth 
say  a  word  that  is  false  or  evil  of  a  fellow-creature,  and 
much  less  be  guilty  towards  him  in  any  deliberate 
action.  We  are  confident  and  without  presumption, 
that,  in  the  mass  of  our  intentions,  we  have  a  benignant 
spirit ;  so  far  from  causing  a  brother  ill,  we  would  do 
and  bear  much  to  cause  him  good,  even  though  our 
enemy,  if  his  need  required,  he  should  drink  of  our  cup, 
and  eat  of  our  bread,  and  have  shelter  in  our  home. 
In  friendship  we  would  be  disinterested,  in  affection 
devoted,  in  neighborly  relations  benevolent  and  blame- 
less. 

Why  then  should  we  curb  these  feelings,  which 
are  prompted  so  well  by  their  native  instincts  ?  What 
need  have  they  of  government  or  of  correction  ?  Fre- 
quently, they  need  restraint  and  watchfulness  because 
they  are  thus  generally  kind,  because  they  are  on  that 
account  so  little  suspected.  For,  notwithstanding  all 
this  amiability,  there  may  be  towards  those  who  are 
near  us  and  about  us,  no  small  quantity  of  peevish- 
ness, crossness,  general  ill-humor.  Those  called 
good-natured  people  do,  often,  unknowingly,  wittingly 
also,  leave  deep  wounds  —  all  the  deeper,  if  they 


THE    DISCIPLINE    OF   LIFE.  103 

possess  our  affection  or  esteem.  It  is  no  excuse  to  say, 
that  their  irritation  is  quickly  over  —  but  so  may  not 
be  the  pain.  A  trigger  may  be  pulled  in  a  second,  but 
the  soul  returns  back  never.  Even  dearest  friends  will 
sometimes  irritate  each  other  in  a  sort  of  levity.  They 
"make,  on  occasions,  a  play  of  torment ;  but,  often  the 
result  is  tragic  and  fatal.  Why  should  friends  ever 
speak  lightly  of  tormenting  one  another.  Not  for  any 
purpose  can  this  be  safely  done.  "  It  cannot  and  it 
will  not  come  to  good." 

We  have  too  many  real  trials  to  meet  without  ama- 
teur ones.  We  have  too  many  wounds  from  those  who 
care  not  for  our  pain  —  from  those,  indeed,  who  design 
our  pain,  to  need  any  to  be  given  us  in  sport,  or  at  the 
hands  of  those,  who,  if  they  knew  it,  would  be  greatly 
grieved  by  the  pain  which  they  had  caused.  Amidst, 
as  we  are,  too  palpable  ills,  and  vexations,  and  per- 
plexities —  amidst  the  wear  and  tear  of  years,  the 
death  of  hopes,  the  shadows  of  present  and  coming 
troubles  —  amidst  the  pullings  and  tuggings  of  action 
and  of  labor,  we  can  none  of  us  afford  to  bear  superer- 
ogatory infliction.  It  is  a  tax  not  set  down  in  the  tariff 
of  affection.  It  is  an  overcharge  in  the  commerce  of 
friendship.  It  is  an  extra  item  added  to  the  demand 
made  upon  forbearance,  after  the  account  has  been 
discharged  and  our  means  are  exhausted.  It  is  an 


104  THE   DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE. 

expense  not  foreseen  upon  our  journey,  and  for  which 
we  have  made  no  provision.  In  any  way  considered, 
it  is  as  troublesome  as  it  is  unnecessary,  and  it  ought 
not  to  have  existence. 

I  have  thus  confined  my  remarks  to  instances  which 
scarcely  amount  to  the  most  ordinary  difficulties  or 
dangers  of  character,  which  yet,  if  entirely  overlooked, 
may  lead  to  failure,  confusion  and  sorrow.  I  have 
thus  confined  myself,  that  the  principle  which  I  would 
urge  in  not  being  connected  with  any  extreme  illustra- 
tion, may  the  more  commend  itself  to  sober  judgment. 
But,  how  greatly  further  might  I  have  gone,  and  still 
be  not  near  to  an  extreme  case.  How  negligent  we 
all  are,  in  allowing  our  minds  to  lie  waste,  or  our 
unchecked  feelings  to  overgrow  them  with  noxious 
weeds,  some  waking  hours  of  sad  experience  reveal 
to  the  most  careless.  If  wilh  the  happiest  constitution 
from  nature,  and  the  best  position  from  circumstances, 
we  yet  need  to  constantly  revise  and  to  correct  our 
tendencies,  to  turn  every  influence  to  its  best  use,  what 
necessity  is  ours  if  our  nature  is  of  stubborn  material, 
and  our  circumstances  hard  and  unfavorable.  But 
there  is  no  reason  even,  then,  to  despair,  no  reason 
even  to  be  discouraged.  From  such  natures  and  out 
of  such  circumstances  have  been  reared  some  of  the 
characters  that  have  most  adorned  and  dignified  hu- 


THE    DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE.  105 

manity.  It  is  easier  to  shape  wood  than  marble,  and 
marble  than  bronze  —  but  bronze  when  moulded,  is 
more  lasting  even  than  marble.  But,  the  coarse  and 
rugged  granite,  which  had  once  been  thought  fit  only 
to  pile  up  in  huge  edifices  stone  upon  stone,  it  has 
been  discovered  can,  by  the  skilful  carver,  be  made  to 
take  impression  of  the  most  beautiful  and  affecting 
sentiments.  There  is  no  occasion  that  I  should  apply, 
with  any  formal  explanations,  these  examples  in  their 
analogies  to  character. 

But,  to  what  end  is  this  discipline  ?  The  present 
question,  as  the  former,  I  meet,  or  rather  amplify 
by  another,  and  that  is,  What  is  life  for  ?  The  end  of 
discipline  is  to  make  life  that  for  which  it  is  given. 
By  deciding  what  that  is,  we  determine  at  once  the 
purpose  of  life,  and  the  direction  of  its  culture  —  moral 
and  spiritual.  Life  then  is  for  action,  for  work,  for 
action  and  for  work  in  the  order  of  duty  and  of  good- 
ness. 

True  progress  in  life,  therefore,  is  moral  more  than 
intellectual,  the  improvement  of  the  inward  being  more 
than  success  in  the  external  career.  Not  that  I  deny 
the  importance  of  intellectual  attainment  and  outward 
comfort.  By  no  means  would  I  depreciate  them.  In 
certain  degrees,  they  are  necessary,  in  general,  to 
refinement  and  elevation  of  character,  and,  if  they  add 


106 


THE   DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE. 


nothing  to  the  worth  of  virtue,  they  add  much  to  its  grace. 
The  truth  however,  should  never  be  concealed,  that 
low  states  of  ignorance  and  destitution  expose  life  to 
moral  evils,  to  mental  degradation,  and  to  social  ineffi- 
ciency. This  is  spoken  in  no  spirit  of  contempt,  but  in 
that  of  profound  sympathy  and  conviction. 

That  is  a  most  infatuated  idealism,  a  most  blinded 
and  perverted  kind  of  religion,  which  can  deny  the 
hopeless  darkness  and  grossness,  in  which  unrelieved 
indigence  and  ignorance  may  place  the  soul.  That 
soul  may  be  as  dead  in  the  throng  of  a  Christian  city, 
as  in  the  depths  of  a  heathen  desert.  It  is  all  but 
mockery  to  go  to  such  souls,  with  a  text  of  Scripture, 
and  expect  the  miracle  of  a  spiritual  resurrection  in  the 
midst  of  their  hunger  and  their  filth.  No,  I  insist,  that 
to  raise  souls  out  of  such  conditions,  or  to  keep  them 
out  of  such,  are,  in  the  order  of  humanity  and  God, 
essential  to  any  life  above  the  most  wretched  and  the 
most  gloomy.  Every  effort,  therefore,  in  this  direc- 
tion in  men,  for  themselves  or  for  others,  is  to  be  com- 
mended. 

As  little  is  it  to  be  doubted  that  social  appearances 
that  imply  prevailing  competence,  industry,  and  peace, 
are  indexes  to  a  correspondent  prevalence  of  morality 
and  religion.  My  observations  were  comparative  and 
applied  to  ordinary  circumstances,  and,  in  this  case, 


THE   DISCIPLINE    OF   LIFE.  107 

they  are  true ;  the  best  progress  is  moral  more  than 
intellectual,  inward  more  than  outward.  It  is  not  in 
the  outward  life  the  power  acts  which  keeps  the  world 
safe.  It  is  in  the  bosoms  of  the  good,  who  though 
never  idle,  care  little  to  be  known.  They  are  silent, 
but  they  are  not  thence  in  palsy.  They  are  unnoticed, 
but  they  are  not  on  that  account  unfelt.  They  are 
inspiring,  they  are  active,  but  it  is  as  the  leaven 
in  the  three  measures  of  meal,  entering  into  the  hearts 
around  them  in  quiet  influences  —  shaping  the  habits  of 
those  near  them  by  the  noiseless  energy  of  example, 
and  working  in  the  community  by  that  hidden  force, 
which,  at  the  same  time,  holds  it  together  and  carries  it 
onward. 

Life,  I  repeat,  is  for  work.  Man  must  work.  That 
is  certain  as  the  sun.  But  he  may  work  grudgingly,  or 
he  may  work  gratefully  ;  he  may  work  as  a  man,  or 
he  may  work  as  a  machine.  He  cannot  always  choose 
his  work,  but  he  can  do  it  in  a  generous  temper,  and 
with  an  up-looking  heart.  There  is  no  work  so  rude, 
that  he  may  not  exalt  it ;  there  is  no  work  so  impas- 
sive, that  he  may  not  breathe  a  soul  into  it ;  there  is  no 
work  so  dull,  that  he  may  not  enliven  it.  Every  work 
has  its  mystery  in  the  understanding,  of  which  the  worker 
has  pre-eminence.  Every  work  has  its  conditions,  rea- 
sons, and  relations,  in  the  comprehending  of  which  the 


108  THE   DISCIPLINE    OF   LIFE. 

agent  has  his  own  sphere  of  power.  In  the  degree,  too, 
that  a  man  finds  dignity  in  his  work,  he  has  dignity  in 
himself.  Each  part  of  a  man  needs  to  do  a  work,  and 
each  part  of  a  man  needs  a  work  to  be  done  for  it. 
There  is  work  by  the  body  and  for  it ;  there  is  work 
by  the  mind  and  for  it. 

Each  stage  of  a  man  needs  a  work,  and  each  stage 
of  a  man  needs  a  work  to  be  done  for  it;  childhood, 
youth,  maturity,  old  age.  It  is  the  same  in  circle 
beyond  circle  of  our  social  humanity.  There  is  work 
in  and  from  the  home  ;  there  is  work  in  and  from  the 
neighborhood ;  there  is  work  in  and  from  the  state  ; 
there  is  work  which  goes  out  to  the  race ;  there  is  work 
which  acts  from  generation  to  generation  —  all  works 
merging  in  the  work  of  Providence,  which,  itself, 
merges  in  the  work  that  upholds  the  universe.  No 
man  then  is  base  who  does  a  true  work,  for  true  action 
is  the  highest  being.  No  man  is  miserable  that  does  a 
true  work,  for  right  action  is  the  highest  happiness. 
No  man  is  isolated  who  does  a  true  work,  for  useful 
action  is  the  highest  harmony  —  it  is  the  highest  har- 
mony with  nature  and  with  souls  —  it  is  living  associa- 
tion with  men  —  and  it  is  practical  fellowship  with 
God.  Life  being  thus  for  work,  it  is,  of  consequence, 
for  reward.  But  the  reward  is  in  the  life,  and  not  out 
of  it.  It  is  not  for  the  life  as  a  matter  of  merit  —  but  is 


THE   DISCIPLINE  OF   LIFE.  109 

of  the  life,  as  a  matter  of  necessity.  It  is  not  wages, 
but  consciousness,  and  just  as  consciousness  lives  in 
thought  and  feeling,  reward  lives  in  virtue. 

Happiness,  therefore,  is  not  the  end  of  duty,  it  is  a 
constituent  of  it.  It  is  in  it  and  of  it ;  not  an  equivalent 
but  an  element.  Make  happiness  once  directly  an  end, 
and  then  duty  there  is  none.  There  may  be  prudence, 
there  may  be  expediency,  but  there  is  no  duty.  Nay, 
make  happiness  once  an  end,  and  you  are  sure  to  miss 
it.  Can  you  call  to  mind  any  individual  who  studied 
his  own  happiness,  that  was  ever  happy  ?  Can  you 
call  to  mind  any  individual  who  labored  for  duty,  that 
was  ever  really  unhappy  ?  I  care  not  how  false  his 
idea  of  duty  may  have  been ;  in  fidelity  to  it,  he  has 
had  peace.  But  the  more  his  idea  is  pure,  benevolent, 
generous,  fruitful  of  wholesome  practice,  must  it  fill, 
and  raise,  and  gladden  him.  The  man  that  intends 
only  his  own  happiness  defeats  his  intention.  The 
man  that  intends  right,  gains  the  object  for  which  he 
does  not  strive.  Reward,  I  repeat,  is  not  arbitrary,  it  is 
inherent.  It  may  not  be  marked  until  the  work  is  done, 
but  it  was  in  the  very  doing  of  the  work,  and  out  of 
that  doing  it  has  come.  Good  deeds  or  evil  deeds  may, 
to  the  senses,  appear  equally  prosperous  and  equally 
abortive  ;  but  however  concealed,  good  deeds  have  their 


110  THE   DISCIPLINE   OF    LIFE. 

reward,  and  however  delayed,  evil  deeds  have  their 
retribution. 

By  the  discipline  of  which  I  have  been  speaking,  I 
do  not  mean  any  formal  schooling,  or  any  mechanical 
training.  Too  much,  already,  there  is  of  these  in  the 
world.  I  mean  that  which  results  from  the  inward 
action  of  the  life  itself,  that,  in  fact,  which  constitutes 
experience.  We  are  not  to  wait  to  Se,  in  preparing  to 
be.  We  are  not  to  wait  to  do,  in  preparing  to  do,  but 
to  find  in  being  and  doing  preparation  for  higher  being 
and  doing.  Affections,  friendships,  pleasures,  amuse- 
ments are  parts  of  this  discipline,  as  well  as  moral  vigi- 
lance and  self  examination  —  success  as  well  as  adver- 
sity, joy  as  well  as  sorrow. 

But  sorrow  is  the  noblest  of  all  .discipline.  Our 
nature  shrinks  from  it,  but  it  is  not  the  less  for  the 
greatness  of  our  nature.  It  is  a  scourge,  but  there  is 
healing  in  its  stripes.  It  is  a  chalice,  and  the  drink  is 
bitter,  but  strength  proceeds  from  the  bitterness.  It  is 
a  crown  of  thorns,  but  it  becomes  a  wreath  of  light  on 
the  brow  which  it  has  lacerated.  It  is  a  cross  on  which 
the  spirit  groans,  but  every  Calvary  has  an  Olivet.  To 
every  place  of  crucifixion  there  is  likewise  a  place  of 
ascension.  The  sun  that  was  shrouded  is  unveiled, 
and  heaven  opens  with  hopes  eternal  to  the  soul,  which 
was  nigh  unto  despair.  Even  in  guilt,  sorrow  has 


THE    DISCIPLINE   OF    LIFE.  Ill 

sanctity  within  it.  Place  a  bad  man  beside  the  death- 
bed or  the  grave,  where  all  that  he  loved  is  cold,  we 
are  moved,  we  are  won  by  his  affliction,  and  we  find 
the  divine  spark  yet  alive,  which  no  vice  could  quench. 
We  cannot  withhold  our  interest,  and  we  are  compelled 
to  give  him  our  respect. 

Christianity  itself  is  a  religion  of  sorrow.  It  was 
born  in  sorrow,  it  was  incarnate  in  sorrow,  in  sorrow  it 
was  tried,  and  by  sorrow  it  was  made  perfect.  The 
author  of  Christianity  was  a  man  of  sorrows  and  ac- 
quainted with  grief.  Alone  did  he  tread  the  wine-press 
of  agony,  until  the  last  drop  of  torture  was  crushed  out. 
Alone  did  he  walk  on  the  waves  of  affliction  in  the 
dark  and  stormy  midnight  of  solitude  and  woe.  With 
sensibilities  so  quick,  so  gentle ;  and  so  loving,  with  a 
perfect  soul,  to  which  wrong  or  wickedness  must  have 
caused  unspeakable  pain,  yet  to  which  the  depths 
of  wrong  and  wickedness  were  exposed  ;  with  sympa- 
thies alive  to  the  smallest  suffering,  and  yet  which 
clasped  in  their  wide  embrace  all  humanity  in  its 
wants  and  its  capacities ;  heavy,  indeed,  was  the  burden 
which  his  spirit  had  to  bear.  Not  on  one  occasion 
only,  but  often,  we  conceive  him  bathed  all  over  with 
the  cold  sweat  of  a  terrible  anguish, —  often  we  may 
hear  him  exclaim,  "  My  soul  is  sorrowful,  exceeding 
sorrowful,  sorrowful  even  unto  death." 


112  THE   DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE. 

It  was  for  such  a  being  that  humanity  waited ;  out 
of  the  depths  of  its  gloom,  of  doubt,  of  suffering  and  of 
sin,  the  heart  of  humanity  cried  for  such  a  being,  and 
in  the  fullness  of  time  he  came.  Humanity  looked  up 
bewildered  to  the  stars,  it  looked  down  weeping  to  the 
grave ;  but  the  stars  were  cold,  and  the  grave  was 
silent.  With  passionate  supplications,  with  tears  and 
blood,  it  besought  reply  to  its  deep  sad  questionings. 
But  heaven  and  earth  were  mute  to  its  petitions.  At 
last  a  being  was  given  to  it,  who  understood  the  secret 
of  its  grief,  and  who  solved  the  mystery  of  its  fears ; 
who  spoke  out  of  its  own  affections  and  to  them ;  who, 
enduring  its  trials  to  the  utmost,  with  the  comfort  of 
divine  truth,  bestowed  the  help  of  divine  companionship. 
Distinctively,  Christ  was  a  man  of  sorrows,  and,  dis- 
tinctively-Christianity  is  a  religion  for  the  sorrowful. 
It  is  by  affliction  that  the  need  of  it  is  felt ;  it  is  by 
affliction  that  its  innermost  meaning  is  apprehended. 
Even  the  pardon  which  it  proclaims,  the  mercy  which 
it  reveals,  descends  only  on  the  tribulations  of  repen- 
tance. It  is  a  religion  which  brings  the  soul  into 
communion  with  solemn  things  on  every  side  of  it,  and 
into  most  intimate  communion  with  itself.  It  is  a 
religion  which,  in  giving  the  soul  an  ideal  of  faultless 
excellence,  humbles  and  chastens  it,  in  the  presence 
of  the  holiness  by  which  it  is  elevated  and  sanctified. 


THE    DISCIPLINE    OF    LIFE.  113 

It  awes  by  the  majesty  of  its  truths,  it  agitates  by  the 
force  of  its  compunctions,  it  penetrates  the  heart  by  the 
tenderness  of  its  appeals,  and  it  casts  over  the  abyss  of 
thought,  the  shadow  of  its  eternal  grandeur.  Nor  is  this 
all.  It  reveals  such  views  of  this  thronged  world,  such 
views  of  those  who  throng  it,  as  often  to  deepen 
reflection  into  sadness. 

But  this  sadness  is  exalting.  It  is  the  baptism  by 
which  every  man  who  lives  profoundly,  is  introduced 
into  his  greater  life.  Since  Christ  wept  over  Jerusalem, 
the  best  and  bravest,  who  have  followed  him,  in  good 
will  and  good  deeds,  have  commenced  their  mission, 
like  him,  in  suffering,  and  not  a  few  of  them,  like  him, 
have  closed  it  in  blood.  Sorrow  is  not  to  be  complained 
of,  it  is  to  be  accepted.  It  has  godliness  in  its  power, 
it  has  joy  within  its  gloom,  and  though  Christianity  is  a 
religion  of  sorrow,  it  is  not  less  a  religion  of  hope  ;  it 
casts  down  in  order  to  exalt,  and,  if  it  tries  the  spirit 
by  affliction,  it  is  to  prepare  it  for  beatitude. 


PRAYER  AND  PASSION. 


LUKE  xi.  3. 

GIVE   US   DAY   BY   DAY   OUR    DAILY  BREAD. 

I  HAVE  selected  from  the  Lord's  prayer  the  most 
lowly  of  its  petitions  for  my  text.  It  suggests  to  me  a 
contrast  between  the  spirit  of  prayer  and  the  spirit  of 
passion,  in  relation  to  the  things  of  this  life.  It  is  on 
such  contrast  that  I  would  at  present  enlarge.  • 

"  Give  us  day  by  day  our  daily  bread."  This  is  the 
desire  of  simple,  of  necessary  want ;  and,  so  far  as  it 
is  such,  it  is  the  universal  prayer  of  living  nature.  It 
goes  up  for  ever,  from  all  regions  of  earth's  animate 
existence  ;  it  is  a  grand,  perpetual  supplication,  sound- 
ing through  land,  through  ocean,  and  through  air. 
What  a  mighty  congregation  is  that  which  calls  on 
God  for  supply,  in  which  supply  their  life  consists  ! 
And  how  wonderfully,  how  sublimely,  how  carefully, 
how  mercifully  is  that  supply  administered !  The 
whole  universe  is  made  to  contribute  to  it.  Earth  out 
of  her  bosom,  the  sea  out  of  its  depths,  the  clouds  out 


PRAYER    AND    PASSION.  115 

of  their  fullness,  the  stars  from  their  height,  the  sun  in 
the  sweep  and  the  changes  of  his  glory,  all  are  con- 
stituted ministries  of  beneficence  to  the  lowliest  wants 
of  the  lowliest  creatures.  And  in  order  to  conceive 
some  faint  idea  as  to  the  extent  and  power  of  those 
ministries,  only  suppose  them  for  a  short  season  sus- 
pended, and  then  try  to  imagine  the  compass  and  the 
terror  of  desolation  that  would  ensue.  Let  even  but 
one  kind  of  food  fail  in  a  single  nation,  and  a  wail  is 
heard  over  the  world,  which  no  distance  can  silence, 
which  no  boundaries  can  shut  out,  or  hinder  from 
wringing  the  hearts  of  the  most  remote  with  pity  and 
alarm.  What  then  would  that  state  be,  in  which  the 
air  should  move  only  to  wither,  the  sun  shine  only  to 
burn,  and  the  clouds  rain  down  only  to  deluge  or  to 
chill.  It  is  a  picture,  which,  could  it  be  fully  and 
clearly  drawn,  might  make  an  angel  tremble. 

But  while  we  shudder  at  such  a  state,  even  as  a 
fancy,  what  gratitude  should  be  ours  to  Him,  to  whose 
unceasing  goodness  we  owe  it,  that  it  is  not  a  reality  ? 
Yes,  it  is  God  to  whom  all  creatures  call,  and  it  is  God 
who  hears  that  call  and  answers  it  with  bounty.  "  Con- 
sider the  ravens,  for  they  neither  sow  nor  reap  ;  which 
neither  have  storehouse  nor  barn,  and  God  feedeth 
them."  And  man,  too,  is  not  less  dependent  than  the 
ravens  ;  for  what  would  all  the  skill  of  men  amount  to, 


116  PRAYER   AND   PASSION. 

what  would  all  their  toils  be  worth,  if  God  did  not  bless 
them,  if  he  did  not  give  them  rain  from  heaven,  and 
fruitful  seasons,  filling  their  heart  with  food  and  glad- 
ness ?  What  would  all  their  planting,  all  their  water- 
ing result  in,  if  God  did  not  give  the  increase  ?  And 
yet  it  is  not  the  less  true,  that  though  the  hand  of  God 
scatters  plenty  over  his  world,  that  numbers  of  his 
rational  children  pine  in  it  for  want  of  bread  ;  that 
numbers  are  in  the  dark  places  of  hunger  and  destitu- 
tion, weeping  in  their  misery,  dying  'in  their  famine ; 
babes  withering  on  the  bosoms  of  their  mothers  ;  fathers 
with  their  manly  strength  bent  down  by  fasting,  and 
bent  down  by  contemplating  the  sufferings  of  those 
whom  they  cannot  rescue,  or  whom  they  would  die  to 
save,  even  by  their  own  privations.  I  cannot  think, 
whatever  philosophers  may  assert,  that  this  is  any 
necessity  in  the  creation  of  a  gracious  Father.  I  can- 
not but  regard  it  as,  on  the  whole,  the  effect  of  sin  and 
selfishness  ;  sin  often  on  the  side  of  the  poor  them- 
selves, and  selfishness  on  the  part  of  others.  And  this 
very  sin  of  the  poor,  how  often  is  it  produced  by  want, 
and  when  not  produced,  how  often  is  it  increased,  per- 
petuated, aggravated,  by  want. 

To  what  crimes  will  not  hunger  alone  frequently 
drive  men.  When  a  stout  man  who  would  work  beholds 
his  wife  pale  with  long  and  involuntary  abstinence  ; 


PRAYEE   AND   PASSION.  117 

when  he  beholds  the  emaciated  faces  of  his  children 
turned  upon  him  with  a  sort  of  discontented  wonder 
that  he  does  not  relieve  them  ;  when  he  feels  nothing 
about  him  but  dreariness  and  cold  ;  and  death,  in  ghastly 
leanness,  is  squatted  on  his  hearth,  between  fever  and 
famine  ;  it  is  only  by  a  holy  strength  which  is  more  than 
human,  that  a  man,  in  such  circumstances,  can  keep 
himself  from  madness  and  from  becoming  a  fiend  or  a 
brute.  There  is  nothing  marvellous  in  the  fact,  that 
many  fall  before  temptations  that  are  so  dreadful ;  the 
true  wonder  is,  that  any  can  resist  and  stand.  There 
is  nothing  marvellous  in  the  fact,  that  out  of  such  cir- 
cumstances should  come  thefts,  falsehoods,  robberies, 
the  destruction  in  numbers  of  all  manly  integrity,  the 
blight  of  all  womanly  purity. 

A  most  comprehensive  petition  is  this,  then,  though 
we  should  use  it  only  in  relation  to  physical  ex- 
istence, when  we  use  it  in  the  Christian  spirit,  not 
alone  in  reference  to  the  wants  of  the  individual, 
but  in  reference  also  to  the  wants  of  collective  hu- 
manity. Then  we  do  in  effect  pray  for  the  sun  to 
shine,  and  for  the  rain  and  dew  to  fall,  and  for  the 
seasons  to  roll,  so  that  earth  shall  bring  forth  her 
increase,  and  that  God,  even  our  God,  shall  give  them 
all  his  blessing  ;  we  do  in  effect  pray  for  the  sustain- 
ment  of  nature,  and  for  the  preservation  of  all  life  ; 


118  PRAYER   AND   PASSION. 

we  do,  in  effect,  pray  for  the  good  order  of  society,  for 
wisdom  in  the  rulers,  and  for  virtue  in  the  people,  for 
inisgovernment  may  bring  want  upon  the  most  fertile 
regions,  and  idleness  and  vice  cannot  escape  from 
destitution  amidst  the  fullest  plenty  ;  we  do,  in  effect, 
pray  for  the  distribution  of  needful  supply  to  all  nations 
and  all  conditions  of  men  ;  if  not  by  abundant  harvests, 
by  abundant  charity,  by  the  grace  of  heaven  in  the 
heart,  so  that  he  who  has  much  shall  impart  to  him  that 
has  little,  and  he  who  has  little  to  him  that  has  none. 

"  Give  us  day  by  day  our  daily  bread,"  is  the  desire 
of  moderation.  It  most  assuredly  cannot,  or  does  not, 
mean  any  savage  simplicity,  or  any  ascetic  self-denial. 
It  would  not  teach  men  to  long  for  nothing  more  than 
animal  subsistence.  It  would  not  exclude  other  and 
more  ardent  and  more  intense  longings  of  man's  nature. 
For  observe  our  Lord's  own  precept :  "  Man  does  not 
live  by  bread  alone,  but  by  every  word  that  proceedeth 
out  of  the  mouth  of  God."  Man's  life,  therefore,  does 
not  consist  in  the  satisfaction  of  his  mere  animal  wants, 
nor  does  his  highest  and  heavenliest  spiritual  life  imply 
that  he  must  reduce  these  animal  wants  to  their  very 
lowest  requirements.  Certainly  greater  words  come 
out  of  the  mouth  of  God,  than  those  which  speak  to  us 
of  self-preservation,  or  than  those  which  urge  us  by  the 
irresistible  instincts  of  hunger  and  of  thirst ;  and  as  we 


PRAYER  AND   PASSION.  119 

may  laudably  desire  more  on  the  animal  side  of  our 
nature,  than  that  which  shall  merely  satisfy  hunger 
and  thirst,  so,  on  the  other  side,  we  may  laudably 
desire  something  more  than  that  which  relieves  it  from 
anguish,  or  leaves  it  in  apathy.  It  is  perfectly  right 
for  us  to  wish  for  whatever  can  give  a  calm  and  com- 
plete replenishment  to  the  whole  of  our  nature ;  but 
sometimes  we  must  limit  that  wish,  and  become  obe- 
dient to  our  circumstances. 

Yet,  are  there  enjoyments,  without  which  there  can 
be  no  exalted  life,  which  it  is  not  only  right  to  desire, 
but  which,  not  to  desire,  implies  a  most  debased  and 
grovelling  existence  ;  which,  moreover,  to  desire  is  to 
possess.  There  is,  for  instance,  a  wish  for  those  sym- 
pathies from  our  fellows,  in  their  several  relations  to  us, 
which  are  the  food  of  our  best  affections.  There  is  a 
longing  after  the  ideal  and  the  beautiful  in  life  and  in 
nature.  Above  all,  I  will  not  say  there  is,  but  there 
should  be  a  yearning  for  supplies  from  heaven,  from 
God,  for  the  strength  and  the  refreshment  of  our 
spirits,  for  growth  and  power  in  every  good  and  holy 
thing.  I  have  said,  that  to  desire  such  blessings  is  to 
possess  them,  and  is  it  not  so  ?  What  really  generous 
and  loving  heart  ever  fails  of  sympathy,  in  the  general 
compass  of  its  experience  ?  True,  it  will  have  trials  and 
sadness,  and  oftentimes  it  will  seem  nigh  to  breaking 


120  PEAYRR    AND    PASSION. 

amidst  jarring  and  antagonist  elements,  but  such  a  heart 
in  its  own  pure  strength,  will  surmount  them,  and  even 
change  them  into  a  placid  atmosphere,  which  will  glow 
with  heat  and  brightness  from  the  flame  of  its  char- 
ities. 

When  our  simple  wants  are  met,  we  then  need  but 
tranquil  souls  to  know  that  we  can  own,  if  we  have  an 
inward  feeling  of  what  is  grand  and  fair,  an  immense 
wealth  of  beauty.     And  for  this,  there  is  no  occasion 
that  we  have  access  to  galleries  of  art,  or  be  surrounded 
by  the  sublimity  or  grace  of  architecture  ;  it  is  enough 
that  we  have  humanity  and  animals,  that  we  have  a 
goodly  earth  and  a  glorious  heaven.     And  as  to  influ- 
ence, aid  from  God,  they  may  be  ours,  whenever  our 
souls   will   have   them.     We   are   embosomed   in   his 
mercy,  and  it  is  only  the  darkness  of  our  own  sins  and 
passions  which  shuts  out  the  light  of  goodness  by  which 
we   are   surrounded.     He  calls  to  us  with  perpetual 
voice  ;  He  is  about  us  with  an  everlasting  Presence ; 
He  solicits  our  affections  by  unceasing  and  unfailing 
benefits  ;  but  when  out  of  harmony  with  his  laws,  we 
have  no  apprehension  of  his  nature,  we  have  no  spir- 
itual hearing  for  his  voice,  we  have  no  spiritual  sight 
for  his  Presence,  and  our  affections  are  insensible  to 
his  benefits.    If  we  seek  Him  in  simple  and  pure  desire, 
He  will  be  abundantly  revealed  to  us  ;  and  once  in 


PRAYER   AND    PASSION.  121 

communion  with  the  Perfect,  we  have  the  full  inherit- 
ance of  Peace. 

I  have  quoted  our  Lord's  precept,  I  will  now  refer  to 
his  example.  There  is  no  ascetism  in  his  character.  His 
life  was  a  life  of  beautiful  proportions.  His  tastes  were 
simple,  but  not  narrow  or  exclusive.  He  did  not  shun 
men's  company  or  their  festivals,  nor  did  he  cast  ever 
a  shade  upon  their  joys  when  he  appeared  among  them. 
He  came  eating  and  drinking ;  and  yet  impiety  itself 
cannot  associate  his  life  with  that  of  the  senses.  There 
is  a  halo  of  sanctity  thrown  around  it,  which  the  fiercest 
unbelief  dares  not  to  sully  with  a  taint  of  accusation. 
His  love  was  accorded  to  whatever  things  were  lovely, 
to  children,  to  birds,  to  flowers ;  and  bread  was  not 
more  the  daily  nourishment  of  his  body,  than  the  good 
and  the  beautiful  were  the  daily  nourishment  of  his 
soul.  And,  also,  did  he  ask  for  sympathy,  for  friend- 
ship ;  deeply  did  he  feel  it,  fervently  he  blessed  it,  and 
cordially  did  he  pay  it  back  ;  he,  too,  amidst  daily 
struggle  and  daily  trial,  yearned  for  human  hearts  to 
support  him  in  hours  of  despondency,  and  to  come 
near  to  him  in  hours  of  solitude.  He  whose  intercom- 
munion with  God  was  such  as  man  had  never  had 
before,  was  yet  most  widely  human  ;  and,  while  agi- 
tated by  none  of  the  lower  or  ruder  passions,  we  behold 
him  rilled  with  the  strongest  and  the  most  sensitive 


122  PRAYER   AND   PASSION. 

affections.  Wonderful,  that  one  whom  all  men  clasd 
with  a  common  brotherhood,  as  feeling  in  him  the  am- 
plitude of  their  nature,  should  reveal  their  nature  to 
them  only  in  blameless  excellence,  and  in  unimpeach- 
able virtue.  He  had  its  wants,  but  not  its  sins  ;  and  he 
was  identified  with  it  in  every  prayer,  except  the 
prayer  for  pardon. 

"  Give  us  day  by  day  our  daily  bread,"  is  the  desire 
of  faith,  of  trust.  It  is  the  desire  of  faith,  of  that  prin- 
ciple of  the  spiritual  man,  by  which  the  soul  has  cog- 
nizance of  a  life  higher  than  that  of  the  appetites  or 
the  senses  ;  of  that  principle  in  the  soul,  by  which  it 
discerns  a  good,  nobler  than  any  physical  enjoyment, 
and  wants  deeper  and  more  lasting  than  any  physical 
needs.  As  for  our  body,  its  existence  is  transient, 
and  so  are  its  requirements  ;  its  existence  is  from  day  to 
day.  Let  not  this,  therefore,  be  the  matter  to  us  of  the 
most  absorbing  and  the  most  permanent  anxiety.  "  The 
life  is  more  than  meat."  Why  then  give  such  dispro- 
portionate care  for  the  meat  that  perisheth,  and  think 
so  little  of  the  life,  which  shall  endure  for  ever  ? 
Gather  as  we  may,  the  treasure  we  amass  here  will 
soon  avail  us  nothing.  If  not  otherwise  wrenched  from 
us,  Time  is  a  thief  that  approacheth,  and  a  moth  that 
corrupteth ;  but  there  is  a  treasure  in  heaven,  where  no 
thief  approacheth,  neither  moth  corrupteth.  Seek  first, 


PRAYER    AND    PASSION.  123 

and  seek  always,  the  kingdom  of  God,  and  his  right- 
eousness, the  kingdom  of  God  within  you,  above  you  ; 
before  you  ;  seek  an  inward  life,  an  upward  life,  a 
growing,  a  progressive  life  ;  a  life  devoted  to  the  right, 
and  then  the  transient  sustenances  which  your  tempo- 
rary wants  require,  will  not  fail  you. 

And,  truly,  when  we  ponder  on  the  subject  seriously, 
not  merely  in  the  spirit  of  faith,  but  according  to  the 
dictates  of  a  practical  judgment,  we  are  forced  to  won- 

f 

der  that  we  should  be  so  vexed,  and  fretted,  and  dis- 
contented, by  things  as  fleeting  as  wreaths  of  mist, 
things  that  pass  away  as  quickly,  and  that  leave  as  little 
trace.  When  a  few  years  are  over,  where  shall  those 
things  be  ?  "  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  there- 
of." And  this  is  a  sentiment  of  trust  as  well  as  a 
sentiment  of  faith.  As  by  faith  we  discern  the  nature 
of  those  objects,  and  so  learn  justly  to  estimate  them, 
by  trust,  we  have  filial  confidence  in  God,  who  alone 
can  give  them,  or  withhold.  We  rely  upon  Him  as  the 
paternal  provider  for  all  his  children,  and  to  Him  we 
look  as  to  a  Father,  to  give  us,  while  we  are  here,  such 
things  as  he  knoweth  that  we  need.  But  this  is  no 
indolent  trust ;  it  is  no  trust  that  makes  sanctity  of  idle- 
ness, and  beatitude  of  apathy.  It  is  not  a  trust  which 
would  set  aside  industry,  or  justify  improvidence.  On 
the  contrary,  it  is  a  trust  which  prompts  to  useful  action, 


124  PRAYER   AND   PASSION. 

and  leads  to  careful  foresight.  Knowing  that  God  works 
by  means,  the  Christian  expects  a  blessing  only  where 
the  means  are  used.  And  just  in  the  degree  that  he 
uses  the  proper  means,  and  uses  them  wisely,  will  he 
be  humble  in  his  confidence ;  for  he  who  acts  rashly, 
and  yet  looks  for  a  safe  result,  is  not  pious  but  presum- 
ing ;  and  he  who  does  not  act  at  all,  yet  hopes  to  be  as 
well  as  if  he  labored,  is  a  sluggard  and  a  fool. 

The  true  Christian  is  an  active  man  and  a  wise  man  ; 
and  he  is  all  the  more  active  and  the  more  wise,  the 
more  that  he  relies  upon  divine  power  and  divine  aid  ; 
for  such  reliance  endows  his  plans  and  labors  with  a 
constant  energy.  He  is  not  disturbed  by  solicitude,  he  is 
not  enfeebled  by  care  ;  he  pursues  his  course  in  peace  ; 
he  does  all  that  prudence  suggests,  all  that  duty  re- 
quires ;  and  then  leaving  the  result  to  God,  he  possesses 
his  soul  in  patience  and  in  peace.  Moderate  in  his 
desires,  believing  in  his  spirit,  if  the  world's  goods  are 
given,  he  is  thankful  for  them  as  means  of  virtue  ;  if 
they  are  refused,  he  is  resigned,  and  is  thankful  still 
for  an  opportunity  of  discipline  ;  if  they  are  taken  from 
him,  he  meets  adversity  with  a  manly  fortitude.  He 
knows  equally  how  to  abound,  and  how  to  suffer  loss  ; 
in  any  station,  how  to  be  content ;  how  to  be  content, 
not  from  the  absence  of  aspiration,  but  the  greatness  of 
it ;  an  aspiration,  that  looks  up  to  such  heights  of  glory, 


PRAYER   AND   PASSION. 


125 


and  is  filled  with  such  a  majesty  of  hope,  that  the  crags 
and  thorns  by  which  our  earthly  feelings  are  tired  and 
wounded,  appear  but  as  shadows  on  a  grass-plot ;  and 
the  disappointments  by  which  they  may  be  for  a  time 
embittered,  but  as  the  vexations  of  a  child. 

I  have  thus  endeavored,  but  with  very  inadequate 
expression,  to  state  what  the  spirit  of  prayer,  as  our 
Lord  teaches,  is,  regarding  the  desires  of  the  present 
condition  of  existence.  They  imply  the  demands  of 
the  physical  life,  in  its  absolute  wants,  and  they  exclude 
not  its  moderate  enjoyments  ;  neither  do  they  repel 
the  proper  culture  and  lawful  indulgence  of  refined 
and  ideal  tastes ;  and  they  not  only  accord  with  all  the 
purer  affections  and  sympathies  of  our  nature,  but 
strengthen,  enlarge,  and  elevate  them.  It  follows,  as  a 
matter  of  the  simplest  inference,  that  desires  regulated 
by  such  a  spirit,  will  be  liberal  and  beneficent.  The 
Christian  does  not  pray  for  an  isolated  supply.  He 
does  not  say,  give  me,  but  give  us,  our  daily  bread. 
He  does  not  desire  that  his  good  shall  be  any  other 
man's  evil ;  and  the  good  which  is  committed  to  his 
care,  it  is  his  happiness  to  distribute. 

It  follows,  as  a  matter  of  equally  simple  inference 
that  desires  regulated  by  such  a  spirit  can  never  be 
cruel,  inhuman,  or  unjust.  They  can  never  wish  for 
the  infliction  .of  pain  or  suffering  on  others  ;  they  can 


126  PRAYER   AND   PASSION. 

never  deliberately  ask  for  what  belongs  to  others  ;  they 
can  never  voluntarily  hold  what  belongs  to  others  ;  and 
such  desires,  therefore,  can  have  neither  affinity  nor 
alliance  with  the  continuance  or  extension  of  any  re- 
mediable misery  among  the  children  of  men,  with  the 
origin  or  perpetuation  of  any  known  wrong  in  the 
world.  The  only  desires  which  we  can  dare  to  present 
in  prayer,  are  simple,  modest,  pure,  generous,  humane, 
just ;  and  whether  for  the  things  of  this  life  or  the 
other.  If  they  are  of  a  contrary  temper,  we  then  should 
find  the  heavens  a  canopy  of  brass  against  our  cry  ; 
our  supplications  might  be  fit  addresses  to  Mammon 
and  to  Moloch,  but  not  to  the  Father  of  Jesus  ;  for  our 
feeling  to  Him,  could  not  then  be  that  of  faith  and 
trust,  but  that  of  outrage  and  blasphemy. 

I  have  occupied  so  much  time  on  desire,  as  govern- 
ed by  the  spirit  of  prayer,  that  little  space  is  left 
me  to  illustrate  the  contrast  to  it,  of  desire  as  gov- 
erned by  the  spirit  of  passion. 

The  passions  are  exorbitant.  I  speak,  of  course,  of 
the  passions  in  the  popular  use  of  the  term,  as  implying 
desires  which  seek  mainly  their  own  gratification,  with- 
out reference  to  the  principles  that  limit  them  for  the 
good  of  the  individual  and  the  good  of  the  community. 
No  passion,  thus  considered,  is  ever  content  within  the 
most  complete  circle  of  its  natural  enjoyment.  It  is 


PRAYER   AND   PASSION.  127 

ever  trying  to  push  out  that  circle  to  a  wider  and  wider 
circumference ;  it  fancies  that  it  does  so,  but  such 
fancies  are  deceits  ;  it  only  destroys  itself  in  strug- 
gles against  an  immovable  barrier,  or  goes  round 
and  round  it  in  the  insensate  routine  of  habit. 
That  barrier  is  fixed  by  God  and  nature,  and  every 
effort  to  stir  it  is  vain  ;  not  so  are  the  threatenings 
against  them,  for  the  penalties  are  inevitable.  The 
passions  are  selfish.  This  is  the  point  from  which  they 
depart,  and  to  which  they  ever  and  again  return ;  to 
enrich  self,  to  gratify  self,  or  to  exalt  self;  and  to  one 
or  other  of  these  motives  separately,  we  may  trace  the 
vices  of  individual  characters ;  and  to  the  action  of  them 
all  collectively,  most  of  the  sins  and  inhumanities  which 
blacken  society  and  curse  the  world.  When  once 
passion  takes  full  possession  of  the  heart,  the  whole 
man  is  absorbed  ;  and  all  his  better  faculties  must  bend 
before  tyranical  desire.  Such  desire  is  blind  and  in- 
sensible to  every  moral  consideration ;  it  loses  respect 
and  pity  for  others,  and  it  would  subject  them  as  instru- 
ments, or  destroy  them  as  opponents  ;  it  has  no  inlet 
for  truth,  it  defies  argument,  it  despises  reason,  it  scouts 
at  obligation  ;  it  tramples  upon  any  claim  opposed  to 
its  own  absorbing  monopoly  ;  it  so  indurates  the  con- 
science, that  the  truest  impulses  of  moral  instinct,  the 
most  impressive  pleadings  of  charity  and  justice,  appear 
to  it  but  as  mockery  and  babble. 


128 


PRAYER    AND    PASSION. 


The  passions,  thus  considered,  are  utterly  irreligi- 
ous ;  they  chill  the  religious  feeling  even  into  moral 
atheism.  When  once  the  authority  of  God  is  prac- 
tically set  aside,  when  the  supremacy  of  his  laws 
is  practically  resisted,  when  reverence  to  his  character 
has  no  testimony  in  the  soul  and  no  evidence  in  the  life, 
when  the  rectitude  of  his  government  is  silently  felt, 
not  as  freedom  but  as  hardship ;  the  formal  acknow- 
ledgment of  his  existence,  is  little  better  than  a  fraud 
upon  men,  and  an  insult  upon  heaven.  The  passions  so 
crowd  the  temple  of  the  heart  with  idols,  that  there  is 
no  room  in  it  for  the  presence  of  the  true  and  only 
God  to  be  recognized  or  worshipped. 

Let  me  briefly  illustrate  this  brief  review  ;  and  that 
common  and  obvious   division,  which   makes  wealth, 
pleasure,  power,  the  leading  objects  of  human  passion, 
will  be  sufficiently  accurate  for  our  space  and  pur-  • 
pose. 

The  passions,  I  have  asserted,  are  exorbitant.  What 
man  that  has  given  his  heart  to  gain  is  content  within 
the  most  ample  wants  of  nature,  ay,  or  within  any  of 
the  possible  cravings  of  luxury  ?  Let  him  have  as 
much  as  will  secure  abundance  to  the  most  protracted 
life,  let  him  have  as  much  as  will  surround  the  largest 
family  with  affluence,  let  him  have  as  much  as  will 
entail  idleness  and  unthrift  on  a  long  posterity,  still,  he 


PRAYER    AND   PASSION.  129 

is  not  content ;  and  the  zeal  of  this  passion  is  eating 
him  up  ;  it  will  not  satisfy  him,  and  will  not  let  him 
rest.  It  is  as  the  sword,  that  can  slay  forever,  and  yet 
not  be  tired  ;  it  is  as  the  fire,  that  can  flame  forever,  and 
burn  the  more,  the  more  that  it  consumes ;  it  is  as  the 
daughters  of  the  horse-leech  that  keep  always  crying, 
give,  give,  give,  and  cry  still  more  loudly  as  the  more 
they  get,  give,  give ;  it  is  as  the  GRAVE,  that  devours 
always,  and  devours  all  things,  but  is  never  full. 

I  have  suggested  that  the  passions  are  selfish.  Take 
witness  of  those  who  devote  themselves  to  pleasure, 
where  can  you  find  selfishness  more  intense  and  more 
complete  ?  Nor,  so  far  as  our  position  is  concerned, 
does  it  much  signify,  whether  the  desires  be  those  of 
sensuality,  or  those  of  vanity,  one  or  the  other,  they 
are  not  the  less  the  movings  of  selfishness.  How 
many  consume  upon  thei  worst  inclinations,  wealth 
that  would  bless  thousands.  How  many  blight  and 
desolate  even  in  their  own  homes,  and  yet,  while 
they  gratify,  ruin  themselves  !  Look  out  upon  the 
world ;  behold  the  vice  that  curses  it,  the  wickedness 
that  profanes  it ;  comprehend,  if  you  can,  the  devasta- 
tion, the  guilt,  the  misery,  the  insanity,  the  godless 
livings,  the  hopeless  dyings,  the  endless  varieties  of 
sorrow  that  turn  the  crowded  places  of  civilization  so 
much  into  social  gehennas,  —  all  these  are  the  achieve- 
9 


130  PRAYER   AND   PASSION. 

ments  of  passion  active  only  for  pleasure  and  for  self. 
From  the  selfish  spirit  working  thus  in  its  coarser 
forms,  we  naturally  avert  our  thoughts.  Yet,  how 
would  vanity  be  startled,  —  vanity  which  walks  in  the 
pride  of  propriety,  in  the  gaud  of  distinction,  in  the 
ease  of  station,  in  the  gaze  of  fashion,  —  if  we  were  to 
tell  IT,  that  this  hateful  principle,  self-gratification,  lurks 
underneath  its  tinsel  glitter ;  that  this  fearful  cancer  of 
the  spirit,  though  covered  with  jewels  and  reputation, 
is  not  the  less  deadly. 

I  have  said  the  passions  are  irreligious ;  but  why 
should  I  extend  my  illustrations,  or  say  any  thing  upon 
the  inordinate  desire  for  power  ?  What  right,  human 
or  divine,  does  it  acknowledge  ?  In  the  individual  or 
the  nation,  in  whom  it  rules,  it  takes  no  heed  of  God 
but  to  blaspheme  him,  or  of  man  but  to  crush  him. 

We  will  not  continue  farther  this  tone  of  reflection, 
but  close  with  such  instruction  as  the  subject  can  afford 
us.  Every  prayer  implies  a  duty,  this  prayer  implies 
many.  I  will  mention  only  two  :  self-denial  and  benefi- 
cence. It  implies  self-denial.  It  is  but  justice  to  others 
to  govern  desire  within  due  bounds ;  for  in  whatever 
degree  we  exceed  these  by  intention,  we  commit  a 
wrong  against  our  brethren  in  purpose  ;  and  in  whatever 
degree  we  exceed  these  bounds  by  actions,  we  do  them 
an  injury  in  fact.  To  restrain  desire,  is  wisdom  to  our- 


PRAYER    AND    PASSION.  131 

selves.  If  we  trust  the  passions,  they  will  deceive  us. 
The  passions  come  to  us  with  fair  promises,  but  they 
reverse  these  promises  into  the  most  galling  disappoint- 
ments. The  passions  come  to  us  blooming  and  with 
smiles,  but  ere  we  know  them  long,  we  see  them  to  be 
haggard.  They  come  to  us  as  suitors,  but  they  carry 
bonds  behind  them  ;  they  offer  to  clothe  us  in  rich  attire, 
yet,  in  a  little  while,  we  discover  there  was  poison  in 
their  folds,  or  they  hang  around  us  as  filthy  rags. 

Let  us  look  at  the  reality  of  things,  and  seek  for  the 
moderation  of  nature  and  of  God,  and,  in  the  spirit 
which  aims  at  no  excess,  we  will  learn  to  be  beneficent. 
If  the  good  Father  grants  us  our  daily  bread,  let  us  eat 
it  in  content ;  if  he  gives  us  more,  let  us  share  it  with  a 
cheerful  temper.  Let  those  who  abound  in  wealth, 
abound  also  in  works.  Many  every  where  are  in 
need,  which  a  very  little  of  your  superfluity  would 
relieve.  The  destitute  are  in  all  places,  in  all  times ; 
scarcely  a  community  so  prosperous,  that  has  not  some 
to  touch  the  pity  of  the  generous.  Think,  then,  with 
eloquent  Isaac  Barrow,  that  "  't  is  the  naked  man's  ap- 
parel which  you  shut  up  in  your  presses,  and  which 
you  exorbitantly  ruffle  and  flaunt  in ;  that  't  is  the 
needy  person's  gold  and  silver  which  you  closely  hide 
or  spend  idly,  or  put  to  useless  use."  Then  deal  thy 
bread  to  the  hungry,  and  raiment  to  the  uncovered,  not 


132  PRAYER    AND    PASSION. 

more  as  an  act  of  mercy  than  an  act  of  justice.  If 
these  be  not  near  you,  they  are  afar ;  and,  if  you 
cannot  do  it  in  your  own  persons,  you  can  by  your 
agents. 

But  do  not  limit  the  precept  to  its  literal  interpre- 
tation ;  give  it  a  spiritual  meaning,  and  make  it  a 
spiritual  fact  by  a  spiritual  application.  There  are 
some  whom  you  can  feed  with  truth  or  support  with 
consolation,  or  encourage  with  sympathy;  there  are 
some  souls  which  you  can  cheer  ;  there  are  some  hands 
which  you  can  strengthen  ;  there  are  some  eyes  which 
you  can  brighten.  In  this  we  can  all  participate  : 
where  we  are  not  able  to  work  ourselves,  we  will  help 
those  who  are  working  ;  and  even  if  that  be  not  in  our 
power,  we  will  bid  them  God  speed,  and  wish  them 
a  blessing  on  their  way.  And  as  day  by  day  we  ask  our 
Father  to  give  us  bread, —  not  the  bread  alone,  which 
springs  from  the  ground,  but  the  bread  also  which 
comes  down  from  heaven,  —  the  bread  of  truth,  the 
bread  of  freedom,  the  bread  of  universal  charity,  the 
bread  of  life, — all  men  shall  be  included  in  that  holy 
aspiration  —  the  deep  desire  that  all  men  may  par- 
take with  ourselves  the  best  gifts  of  God,  shall  mingle 
with  the  prayer  and  sanctify  it ;  and  soul  shall  unite  it- 
self to  soul  in  consenting  supplication,  until  a  congre- 
gation which  no  man  can  number,  shall  put  it  forth,  not 


PRAYER   AND    PASSION.  133 

as  a  sound  upon  the  lips,  but  as  the  breathings  of  the 
spirit  in  a  cloud  of  ever-ascending  and  ever-dwelling 
incense ;  and  the  Creator  will  listen  to  his  faithful 
people,  and  will  pour  these  bounties  down,  in  showers 
as  bright  as  the  sun,  as  wide  as  the  earth,  —  and,  as 
the  angels  sang  first  at  the  birth  of  the  gospel,  they  will 
sing,  then,  at  its  triumph. 


TEMPER. 


MARK  ix.  50. 

HAVE  PEACE  ONE  WITH  ANOTHEH. 

IT  is  truly  astonishing  how  little  our  moral  reflections 
dwell  upon  our  tempers  ;  how  seldom  the  errors  of  it 
impress  us  with  any  strong  regrets  or  penitence.  We 
rarely  blame  ourselves  on  their  account,  and  we  further 
presume  that  others  also  ought  not  to  blame  us.  We 
value  a  good  reputation  beyond  riches,  and  for  fame  or 
fortune,  we  think  no  exertions  too  great ;  but  as  to  the 
regulations  of  temper,  not  to  say  that  we  rarely  esteem 
it  a  duty,  we  rarely  give  it  a  thought.  We  do  not 
reflect  on  the  space  of  existence  over  which  our  temper 
spreads,  and  which  it  bathes  in  light  or  sows  with 
thorns.  We  do  not  remember  how  passing  cruel  we 
may  be  without  inflicting  wounds  or  imprisonment, 
without  either  the  dagger  or  the  dungeon.  We  do  not 
think  that  we  are  all  creatures  of  sym  f  ail  }  .thatwc 
share  each  other's  life,  and  that  we  have  a  power,  all 
but  boundless,  to  render  each  other  happy  or  unhappy. 


TEMPER.  135 

In  the  strength  of  our  selfishness  we  too  often  forget 
the  harshness  of  our  words,  the  coldness  or  bitterness 
of  our  looks,  and  we  care  not  for  the  deep  and  bleeding 
incisions  which  they  leave  behind  them.  We  do  not 
enough  consider  how  much  a  gentle  temper  may  be  the 
evidence  of  a  noble  nature  ;  and  how  much  an  ungentle 
one  may  be  the  shadowing  forth  of  a  dark  and  contract- 
ed soul :  the  moral  beauty  as  well  as  moral  strength 
that  are  implied  in  sweetness  of  spirit,  and  the  moral 
hideousness  that  makes  its  dwelling  in  a  bitter  heart. 

What  is  the  difference  in  principle  between  the  most 
cruel  tyrant  and  the  truest  lover  of  his  kind  ?  It  is 
temper.  When  your  imagination  forms  to  itself  the 
idea  of  an  angel  or  a  fiend,  what  is  still  the  differ- 
ence ?  It  is  temper.  And  could  you  clothe  the  angel 
or  the  fiend  in  human  shape,  the  most  prominent  char- 
acteristic in  each  would  yet  be  temper.  As  to  those 
also  whom  we  once  have  known,  who  casually  crossed 
our  path,  or  walked  along  with  us  for  years  in  this  our 
pilgrimage,  does  not  our  involuntary  memory  turn  to 
their  habits  of  temper  ?  When  their  bones  are  in  ashes, 
when  many  of  their  good  and  bad  deeds  have  gone 
into  forgetfulness,  again  and  again  they  live  to  us  in 
the  recollection  of  their  tempers  ;  we  see  again  their 
benign  or  clouded  looks,  we  hear  again  their  kind  or 
harsh  expressions.  We  can  forget  an  act  of  malice, 


136  TEMPER. 

however  dark,  but  we  cannot  forget  that  which  for 
years  has  eaten  as  iron  into  our  souls.  We  may  be 
ungrateful  for  an  act  of  goodness,  however  generous, 
but  we  are  unable  to  dissolve  the  charm  which,  through 
many  days  of  peace  and  charity,  spread  its  light  around 
us.  We  consider  not  how  much  temper  enters  into 
daily  life  ;  how  it  penetrates  the  whole  surface  of  exist- 
ence ;  that  it  is  in  our  daily  employments,  in  our  gen- 
eral society,  in  our  homes,  around  our  hearths  ;  that 
it  gives  sweetness  to  the  dinner  of  herbs,  or  turns  luxury 
to  the  food  of  misery. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  enumerate  and  classify  all 
the  failings  of  temper,  for  they  are  as  many  as  there 
are  peculiarities  of  human  character.  The  general 
constitution  of  the  mind  gives  the  cast  to  temper ;  and 
therefore  the  varieties  of  temper  must  be  infinite.  We 
shall,  however,  glance  at  bad  temper  in  a  few  of  its 
most  evil  forms,  and  we  can  only  do  so  in  some  of  their 
broader  distinctions.  There  are  the  violent,  strong  in 
coarse  and  selfish  passions,  unable  to  bear  any  contra- 
diction to  a  stubborn  will,  and,  as  the  case  may  be,  they 
keep  in  strife  a  nation  or  a  household.  The  temper  of 
this  species  is  the  prime  element  in  the  tyrannic  charac- 
ter whether  of  greater  or  smaller  dimensions,  whether 
of  a  family  or  an  empire.  Give  it  a  religious  direction, 
and  it  makes  the  bigot,  the  fanatic,  and  the  persecutor. 


TEMPER.  137 

Give  it  power,  and  it  will  again  open  the  Inquisition,  or 
rekindle  the  fires  of  the  stake.  In  more  calm  and  re- 
spectable orders  of  society,  wherever  decorum  at  the 
least  has  rule,  this  disposition  can  have  but  rare  exhibi- 
tion ;  but  in  other  grades  of  life,  in  which  character  has 
one  rude  formation  and  expression,  no  restraint,  it  has 
a  ravaging  and  a  fearful  existence.  It  grieves  one 
to  the  very  heart  to  know  that  a  low,  barbarous  and 
ruffian  nature,  sulky,  obtuse  and  unforbearing,  can  fill 
to  the  brim  the  measure  of  calamity,  that  the  few 
he  has  near  him  can  endure  ;  that  the  home  he  calls 
his  castle,  he  can  for  others  make  a  dungeon ;  that  the 
liberty  of  which  he  boasts,  he  can  make  to  them  a 
bondage  ;  that  the  power  which  should  be  their  guar- 
dianship, he  can  make  their  terror :  it  grieves  one,  I  say, 
to  know  that  such  a  savage  may  exist  in  a  free  and 
Christian  country  ;  that  he  can  heap  sorrows  without 
number  on  dependent  and  defenceless  victims  ;  that  he 
can  embitter  their  existence  and  bruise  their  hearts  ; 
that  within  his  sphere  of  bounded  tyranny,  he  can  be  as 
complete  a  despot  as  if  he  wore  the  crown  of  all  the 
Russias  —  a  cruel,  fierce,  and  unmitigated  despot. 

There  are,  again,  the  morose  ;  and  the  temper  of  this 
class  as  it  has  various  forms,  so  it  has  likewise  manifold 
sources.  It  may  be  founded  in  extreme  self-conse- 
quence or  in  extreme  self-dissatisfaction,  and  it  may  be 


138  TEMPER. 

evidenced  in  haughty  contempt,  or  in  silent  and  cold  in- 
difference. Such  a  temper  constrains  the  spirit ;  it  leaves 
the  soul  few  social  attractions  and  few  generous  desires  ; 
it  throws  gloom  where  there  ought  to  be  light,  it  withers 
the  smile  half-formed,  it  silences  the  word  half-spoken, 
it  robs  action  of  loveliness,  and  takes  all  grace  from 
speech  ;  it  has  no  soul  of  frank  and  generous  apprecia- 
tion ;  its  natural  element  is  to  destroy  rather  than  to 
create ;  it  seems  to  live  only  to  prove  how  much  a 
rational  creature  may  mistake  the  object  of  his  exist- 
ence, and  how  much  pain  one  human  creature  may 
give  to  another  without  reaping  any  gain  or  pleasure  to 
himself.  The  misery  that  violence  inflicts,  it  inflicts 
openly  —  this  does  it  silently  :  violence  often  feels  its 
wrong  —  this  never  ;  violence  has  its  moments  of  deep 
compunction  and  periods  of  sorrowful  and  gentle 
tenderness  that  almost  atone  for  many  of  its  worst 
injuries  —  but  this  austere  reserve  has  no  visitings  of 
open-heartedness,  and  no  times  of  refreshment.  I  have 
said  that  a  violent  temper  makes  the  tyrant  —  this  makes 
the  cynic ;  I  have  said  that  a  violent  temper  makes  the 
fanatic  —  this  makes  the  ascetic  :  if  both,  therefore,  be 
equal  in  unkindness,  the  one  is  at  least  more  coldly 
intolerable  than  the  other. 

Further,  there  are  the  revengeful.    The  others  I  have 
mentioned  are  commonly  founded  in  pride,  —  this  more 


TEMPER.  1 39 

frequently  in  vanity  ;  pride  can  be  magnanimous,  can 
forget  and  can  forgive,  but  wounded  vanity  remembers 
an  offence  forever,  and  seldom  forgives  it.  To  beings 
of  this  spirit,  flattery  is  the  very  breath  of  their  nostrils, 
the  food  of  their  life.  Rough  or  disagreeable  truth  is 
not  to  be  endured,  but  what  then  must  be  positive 
injustice  ?  Sensitive  at  all  points,  such  persons  are 
hurt  when  you  do  not  know  it  and  could  not  intend  it. 
Often  you  give  a  mortal  stab  when  you  but  made 
a  careless  movement  ;  they  ponder  over  words  and 
actions,  until  a  mole-hill  seems  to  be  a  mountain,  and 
they  revolve  and  revolve  the  thought  so  often,  that  an 
offence  becomes  fixed  immovably  in  their  imaginations  ; 
they  catch  the  transgressor  by  the  throat,  and  will  not 
let  him  go,  until  he  has  paid  the  uttermost  farthing. 
In  this  imperfect  world,  we  have  many  failings  and 
many  provocations ;  but  as  we  value  the  least  fragment 
of  a  benign  humanity,  let  us  keep  the  spirit  free  from 
this  most  bitter  dreg  of  earthly  evils,  this  last  and 
worst  sin  of  a  short-sighted  and  corrupted  nature.  O, 
let  us,  as  we  value  our  own  heart's  best  and  most 
godlike  peace,  as  we  value  every  moment  of  present 
tranquillity  and  of  future  hope,  keep  them  free  from 
anti-social,  and  hard,  and  unmerciful  dispositions. 

There  are,  moreover,  the  discontented.  The  temper  of 
those  is  that  which  goes  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  on 


140  TEMPER. 

every  step  of  the  way  cries  that  all  is  barren.  This  is  the 
one  that  sees  little  in  man  or  in  life  with  the  open  heart 
or  the  clear  eye  of  enjoyment ;  this  is  the  one  that  no 
society  can  please,  that  no  character  can  suit,  that  no 
exertions  can  earn  approval  from,  that  no  condition  can 
satisfy ;  that  is  equally  complaining,  equally  unhappy, 
equally  dissatisfied,  in  prosperity  or  in  poverty.  For 
those  of  such  spirit  earth  has  no  retreat,  they  can  have 
no  shelter  and  no  refuge.  Whither  can  they  flee  ? 
The  world  is  full  of  imperfections,  and  so  are  the  men 
that  live  in  it.  If  we  have  only  sight  for  evils,  they 
are  abundant  in  every  place  and  in  all  conditions; 
wherever  we  turn,  if  we  will  not  look  on  aught  but 
these,  we  must  have  aching  heads  and  aching  souls. 

There  are  persons  who  seem  even  to  delight  in  prov- 
ing that  there  is  in  the  world  more  of  evil  than  of 
good,  and  more  of  what  is  baneful  than  what  is  beauti- 
ful. They  take  joy  from  prosperity,  and  they  add  more 
than  its  natural  bitterness  to  poverty ;  in  success  they 
are  without  gratitude,  in  failure  they  are  without 
patience  or  dignity,  —  to  describe  them  in  few  words, 
they  are  always  disappointed  !  The  mountain  or  the 
plain,  the  city  or  the  desert,  soft  skies  or  dark  ones, 
are  all  equal  to  those  who  will  not  see  the  works  of  God 
with  a  single  eye,  and  will  not  hear  the  words  of  man 
with  an  open  ear.  The  glories  of  nature,  or  the  glories 


TEMPER.  141 

of  art,  men,  books,  or  business,  —  nothing  can  take 
from  them  the  occasion  to  complain.  No  gleam 
from  heaven  can  cheer  their  hearts,  no  sounds  on 
earth  can  charm  away  their  irritation.  There  is  no 
benison  in  religion  that  can  give  them  a  contented 
peace  ;  they  wither  under  a  spiritual  malady,  they 
are  not  happy,  and,  stranger  still,  they  scarcely 
would  be  happy.  If  this  be  thought  an  over-colored 
picture,  turn  to  what  we  witness  daily  in  life,  to  what 
we  daily  feel  in  our  own  minds,  the  peevish  tempers 
which  we  all  so  constantly  indulge,  and  in  which  we 
think  it  no  harm  to  indulge,  the  remorseless  and  un- 
generous pelutance  with  which  we  hurt  our  fellow- 
creatures,  with  which  we  make  them  suffer  for  any  of 
our  own  small  vexations  or  annoyances,  —  vexations  or 
annoyances  that  we  have  brought  upon  ourselves,  and 
which  it  is  more  than  probable  we  fully  merit.  In  this 
most  unamiable  temper  we  chill  and  disgust  the  best- 
intentioned  friends ;  the  movement  of  kindness  is  des- 
pised ;  the  word  of  affection  dies  upon  the  lips  of  the 
utterer ;  a  willingness  to  think  wrong  where  it  is  not, 
to  exaggerate  where  it  is,  predominates  in  such  natures  ; 
no  devotion  of  attachment,  no  ardor  of  generosity,  no 
zeal  of  love  can  conquer  it.  Child  or  servant  lives  but 
in  slavery  or  fear,  and  often  when  most  deserving 
receive  most  rebuke. 


142  TEMPER. 

Brethren,  if  our  souls  are  tortured  with  unknown 
sorrows,  as  many  of  them  must  be, —  if  we  have  griefs 
for  which  we  have  no  speech,  if  we  have  cares  with 
which  we  cannot  trust  the  stranger,  if  we  have  thoughts 
and  woes  which  we  have  no  heart  to  tell  even  to  our 
nearest  friend  ;  yet  let  us  not  dishonor  them,  let  us  not 
desecrate  them  by  distilling  them  into  the  venom  of 
ungenial  tempers,  let  us  magnanimously  endure  them, 
let  us  be  ourselves  the  martyrs  of  our  own  sufferings  ; 
and  if  we  cannot  assuage  them  in  our  closets  by  weep- 
ing and  by  prayer,  let  us  not  embitter  the  lot  of  others 
by  peevishness  and  by  cynicism.  If  we  cannot  be 
cheerful,  let  us  at  least  not  be  unamiable.  If  we  can- 
not rejoice  when  others  rejoice,  let  us  not  throw  gall 
into  the  cup  of  pleasure  which  mortals  here  are  per- 
mitted to  taste,  and  which  must  so  soon  be  emptied. 

But  to  observe,  as  sometimes  we  all  may,  the  face 
grow  dark,  and  the  tones  become  harsh,  on  account  of 
some  wretched  trifle,  some  bubble  that  is  to  vanish  in 
a  moment,  we  wonder  not  it  should  be  so,  because 
they  are  Christians,  but  because  they  are  rational  crea- 
tures ;  we  wonder  not  because  they  give  pain  to  bre- 
thren, but  because  they  ruffle  their  own  peace ;  and  all 
this  for  what  to  either  was  not  worth  a  moment's  trouble 
or  a  moment's  annoyance. 

To  close  the  enumeration,  we  mention  the  capricious ; 


TEMPER.  143 

and  this  is  the  worst,  for  it  is  the  most  uncertain.  You 
have  nothing  on  which  to  calculate,  you  have  no  means 
of  refuge  or  of  remedy.  To  the  violent  and  morose,  you 
may  oppose  patience,  and  thus  disarm  them  ;  the  haugh- 
ty you  may  meet  with  humility,  and  haply  subdue  them  ; 
the  discontented,  you  may  learn  not  to  notice  ;  the 
peevish,  if  they  are  worth  gaining,  or  that  your  duty 
teaches  you  to  make  the  effort,  you  may  at  last  gain  by 
proofs  of  sincerity  and  tenderness ;  but  of  the  capri- 
cious you  have  never  the  slightest  security,  neither  for 
hatred  nor  for  love.  Gentle  this  hour,  they  are  stern 
in  the  next,  zealous  and  indifferent,  kindly  and  severe, 
indulgent  and  vindictive,  charitable  and  unmerciful ; 
they  run  incessantly  through  all  modes  of  feeling ; 
they  exhibit  in  no  long  periods  of  time,  all  possible  con- 
trasts of  character  ;  their  evil  is  equally  evanescent 
with  their  good,  but  you  can  never  be  armed  for  their 
evil,  and  you  have  no  sooner  felt  their  good,  than  you 
fear  to  lose  it.  At  one  time  they  would  move  heaven 
and  earth  to  make  you  happy,  and  in  the  turn  of  a  mo- 
ment they  would  scarcely  move  a  finger ;  at  one  time 
they  would  burden  you  with  favors,  and  at  others  they 
heap  on  you  their  darkest  dislike  ;  to-day  they  offer  you 
their  friendship,  and  to-morrow  they  withdraw  it,  and 
both  the  offer  and  the  withdrawal  are  equally  without 
assignable  or  discoverable  reason.  Their  will  is  their 


144  TEMPER. 

law ;  but  if  there  be  such  a  thing,  their  law  is  chance. 
They  seem  to  have  no  settled  rules  in  either  their  feel- 
ings or  their  actions,  no  defined  order  of  character, 
and,  therefore,  you  have  no  common  principles  on 
which  to  judge  them,  or  by  which  to  hold  them.  You 
feel  near  them,  similarly  to  those  who  stand  around  an 
Eastern  sultan's  throne,  —  who  at  one  moment  bask  in 
the  smiles  of  his  favor,  but  who  are  in  hourly  fear,  he 
will  give  the  nod  which  shall  unsheath  the  sword  of  the 
executioner. 

Those  who  are  in  immediate  connection  with  the 
class  that  I  have  described,  live  in  constant  and  painful 
alternation,  in  which  there  is  no  ease,  or  certainty  or 
comfort ;  in  which  life  is  made  such  a  mortal  torture 
as  scarcely  to  be  endured  ;  in  which  family  depend- 
ence is  a  galling  yoke,  and  the  bread  of  toil  is  eaten  in 
tears  of  bitterness.  Servants  in  lands  of  liberty,  can 
retreat,  they  can  choose  their  masters,  —  but  fam- 
ilies, what  can  they  do  ?  Remain  and  suffer  !  Re- 
main, endure,  and  be  hopeless  and  helpless  victims ; 
remain,  and  for  mere  existence  bear  whatever  those 
who  rule  their  existence  can  heap  upon  them ;  remain, 
and  have  all  the  pangs  of  martyrdom,  and  none  of 
its  honors.  We  cannot  always  choose  our  lot,  nor  is  it 
right  to  quarrel  with  the  lot  which  is  assigned  us ;  but  if 
it  were  permitted  us,  there  are  surely  many  things 


TEMPER.  145 

which  we  would  prefer  to  constant  irritation  and  to 
domestic  tyranny.  It  were  better  to  scoop  a  cave  in 
an  Arabian  desert,  and,  as  the  old  hermits  did,  diet  on 
herbs  and  water,  than  to  be  under  this  irritable  and 
cruel  caprice,  though  we  should  have  robes  of  purple 
and  fare  sumptuously  every  day ;  it  were  better  to  raise 
a  tent  in  some  woods  of  the  far  off  and  untrodden  west; 
it  were  better  to  be  amidst  the  wild  and  pathless  prairies, 
and  to  take  the  red  man's  fate,  to  have  freedom  and 
peace,  and  communion  with  God  amidst  his  most  awful 
solitudes  and  his  grandest  works  ;  than  to  be  inmates  of 
a  palace  in  which  ill  temper  were  the  presiding  spirit. 
Duty  might  command  us  to  bear,  but  inclination  would 
never  choose  it. 

I  have  thus  endeavored  to  point  out  a  few  broad 
generalities.  In  such  a  subject,  minuteness  were  im- 
possible. We  give  no  rules  for  cure,  because  we  con- 
ceive all  such  rules  inefficacious.  Each  one  should 
know  his  own  special  temptation,  and  if  he  is  at  all  to 
be  corrected,  from  himself  should  come  the  remedy. 
It  is  vain  to  give  rules  and  maxims ;  they  are  of  no 
account,  unless  there  is  an  inward  feeling  of  imperfec- 
tion, unless  there  is  an  earnest,  a  heartfelt,  a  conscien- 
tious spirit  of  sincerity  :  if  these  be  in  the  mind,  it  will 
truly  discover  and  most  earnestly  apply  the  very  best 
means  of  moral  progression.  Still  it  is  right  for  us 
10 


TEMPER. 


to  consider  a  few  of  the  excuses  which  are  alleged 
for  ill  temper.  And  when  faults  of  temper  are  at  all 
admitted,  what  are  the  excuses  pleaded  ?  Some 
plead  natural  constitution  —  they  are  betrayed,  when 
they  design  it  not,  into  wrong  speaking,  and  into  wrong 
doing.  Some  plead  bodily  illness  or  the  misfortunes  of 
life ;  want  of  health  has  thrown  a  cloud  upon  their 
spirits,  or  men  have  not  dealt  well  with  them,  or  for- 
tune and  the  world  have  been  rough  and  boisterous  on 
their  course.  Some  plead  the  errors  of  their  previous 
training ;  they  were  not  taught  better,  and  they  did  not 
see  better  ;  they  were  furnished  with  no  right  principles, 
and  they  saw  all  wrong  examples.  Some  plead  provo- 
cations not  to  be  resisted,  and  say  that,  to  have  been 
otherwise  than  they  are,  were  to  have  been  more  than 
human.  Some,  unwilling  to  confess  any  fault,  will 
maintain  that  their  conduct  is  that  which  is  just  and 
necessary.  This  would,  no  doubt,  be  the  largest  class, 
when  they  reason  with  men  :  we  hope  they  are  not  so, 
when  they  reason  with  their  consciences;  still  at  times, 
they  must  remember,  that  although  man  sees  only  the 
outside  appearance,  God  judges  the  heart.  But  as  to 
these  or  any  other  excuses,  whilst  we  should  be  gen- 
erous in  admitting  them  for  our  brethren,  we  should  be 
cautious  in  taking  them  to  ourselves. 

That  physical  constitution  is  at  the  root  of  many  of 


TEMPER.  147 

our  faults,  is  not  to  be  denied,  but  neither  is  it  to  be 
denied,  that  it  has  an  influence  on  much  of  our  excel- 
lence. We  know  there  are  those  in  earliest  youth, 
whom  all  of  us  have  had  the  means  of  discerning,  con- 
fiding, faithful,  charitable,  ready  to  be  pleased,  unwil- 
ling to  find  fault ;  whilst  others  have  been  sharp,  harsh, 
unkind,  watchful,  proud,  and  selfish.  And  seldom  has 
it  been  that  the  later  nature  has  been  opposed  to  early 
promise.  That  natural  disposition  may  cause  moral 
derangement  should  not  be  denied,  neither  should  it 
be  excluded  from  the  number  of  mitigating  circum- 
stances ;  that  illness  may  depress,  and  misfortunes  vex 
us,  we  are  all  too  well  experienced  to  be  severe  on 
those  who  have  undergone  them  impatiently ;  that 
wrong  education  may  leave  faults  which  shall  endure 
to  latest  hours  of  life,  many  of  us  have  but  too  much 
reason  to  lament,  and  these  faults  may  be  far  more 
sincerely  lamented  by  those  who  commit  them,  than  by 
those  who  condemn  them  ;  that  great  provocation  —  and 
much  there  certainly  is  in  life  —  demands  also  charitable 
allowance,  we  have  no  reason  and  no  wish  to  deny, 
when  it  calls  forth  a  strong  and  indignant  burst  of 
passion. 

But  when  we  have  made  all  the  admission  that  jus- 
tice demands  and  charity  can  grant,  some  serious  con- 
siderations remain,  after  all,  to  be  pondered.  In  what 


148 


TEMPER. 


way  do  we  use  these  excuses  ?  How  often  do  we  ad- 
vance them  when  there  is  no  ground  for  any  of  them, 
when  there  is  no  illness,  no  adversity,  no  evil  example, 
no  evil  communication,  no  resistance  ;  when  every 
word  and  will  is  law  ;  when  health,  and  prosperity, 
and  pleasures,  and  hopes,  and  friendships,  and  smiles 
from  heaven  and  from  men,  and  obsequious  attendance 
are  all  about  us,  or  awaiting  our  command ;  when  the 
miseries  that  strike  others  down  have  passed  over  us, 
and  not  touched  us ;  when  death,  the  lot  of  all,  as  yet 
has  left  our  dwellings  full ;  when  as  yet  the  destroying 
angel  has  never  waved  his  sword  over  us,  nor  pierced 
our  hearts,  nor  opened  the  sluices  of  our  tears ;  how 
often  then  are  we  in  bitter  and  unhappy  moods,  when 
there  seems  no  human  reason,  but  an  infatuated  per- 
verseness. 

And  though  all  these  excuses  in  part  were  true,  how 
much  in  our  self-love  do  we  over-color  them.  We  are 
our  own  advocates,  and  therefore  we  are  not  likely  to  be 
just  or  severe  judges.  But  though  they  were  entirely 
true,  what  of  that  ?  Is  it  not  demanded  of  a  moral  and 
virtuous  man  to  overcome  temptation  —  to  subdue  diffi- 
culties ?  Will  not  the  right-minded  man,  not  to  say  the 
Christian,  struggle  against  his  natural  infirmities,  nor 
cease  until  he  has  secured  a  victory  ?  If  we  were  to 
act  on  all  our  merely  natural  emotions,  moral  reason- 


TEMPER.  149 

1 

ing  must  be  put  out  of  the  question.  Akin  to  the 
brutes,  we  should  be  driven  by  the  force  of  impulse, 
and  to  this  necessity  we  ran  attach  neither  praise  nor 
censure.  We  call  not  the  gentleness  of  the  lamb,  vir- 
tue, nor  the  fierceness  of  the  tiger,  vice.  But  man  we 
expect  to  have  a  control  over  his  sensations ;  we  ex- 
pect him  to  be  a  moral  being,  and  if  he  looks  to  us  not 
to  reckon  the  wrong  he  has  done,  because  he  has  done 
it  in  accordance  with  his  sensations,  he  asks  us  in 
point  of  fact  to  strip  him  of  his  humanity.  Similar 
reasoning  applies  to  the  other  causes  alleged,  but  not 
so  directly.  We  cannot  here  go  into  the  distinctions  ; 
enough  is  it  to  say,  that  we  have  seen  them  frequently 
overcome,  and  what  has  been  done  hitherto  can  be 
done  again  ;  what  men  ought  to  do,  they  can  do,  and 
all  excuses  to  the  contrary  are  but  so  many  equivo- 
cations and  sophistries  for  self-will. 

It  has  been  the  misfortune  of  many  to  have  received 
a  false  training,  and  to  have  witnessed  unseemly  ex- 
amples ;  but  they  have  cast  off  the  incubus  of  their 
education,  and  been  good  in  spite  of  their  examples. 
It  has  been  the  misfortune  of  many  to  lie  long  and 
low  in  sickness ;  but  it  has  been  their  glory  and  their 
blessing  to  be  meek  through  all  their  pains.  There 
have  been  those  who  have  come  to  a  poor  and  depend- 
ent old  age,  and  yet  preserved  the  affections  of  their 


150  TEMPER. 

hearts  and  the  light  of  their  spirits ;  there  have  been 
those  who  have  seen  their  best  expectations  fail  on  the 
point  of  fulfilment,  and  their  best  contrived  plans  turned 
into  vanity,  and  their  honest  exertions  defeated,  and 
nothing  but  losses,  struggles  and  fears  made  the  daily 
and  nightly  companions  of  their  thoughts  ;  who  have 
yet  well  endured  their  lot,  and  valiantly  fought  their 
fight,  who  could  shake  off  the  dark  fiend  that  haunts 
the  afflicted,  who  would  not  hear  the  voice  of  the 
tempter,  and  cursed  neither  God  nor  man.  There 
have  been  those  who,  in  the  teeth  of  the  most  violent 
provocation,  thought  forbearance  more  noble  than  con- 
test ;  who  learned  and  practised  the  magnanimous  lesson, 
"  not  to  return  evil  for  evil,"  and  who  preferred  rather 
to  endure  injury  than  to  inflict  it ;  who  would  have 
chosen  rather  to  pray  with  Christ  on  his  cross,  than  to 
reign  with  the  wrong-doer  on  his  throne.  All  these 
excuses  are  futile  and  unsound.  We  must  not  deceive 
ourselves  by  them.  Evil  tempers  can  be  corrected, 
and  they  ought. 

They  can  be  corrected.  Who  is  he  that  says,  he  cannot 
help  being  angry,  or  sullen,  or  peevish  ?  I  tell  him  he 
deceives  himself.  We  constantly  avoid  being  so,  when 
our  interest  or  decorum  requires  it,  when  we  feel  near 
those  whom  we  know  are  not  bound  to  bear  our  whims, 
or  who  will  resent  them  to  our  injury ;  but  what  strangers 


TEMPER. 

will  not  endure,  we  cast  upon  our  friends.  That  temper 
can  be  corrected,  the  world  proves  by  thousands  of 
instances.  There  have  been  those  who  set  out  in  life 
with  being  violent,  peevish,  discontented,  irritable,  and 
capricious,  whom  thought,  reflection,  effort,  not  to 
speak  of  piety,  have  rendered,  as  they  became  mature, 
meek,  peaceful,  loving,  generous,  forbearing,  tranquil, 
and  consistent.  It  is  a  glorious  achievement,  and  blessed 
is  he  who  attains  it. 

But  taking  the  argument  to  lower  ground,  which  I 
do  unwillingly,  you  continually  see  men  controlling 
their  emotions,  when  their  interest  commands  it.  Ob- 
serve the  man  who  wants  assistance,  who  looks  for 
patronage,  how  well,  as  he  perceives  coldness,  or  hesi- 
tation, does  he  crush  the  vexation  that  rises  in  his  throat, 
and  stifles  the  indignation  that  burns  for  expression. 
How  will  the  most  proud  and  lofty  descend  from  their 
high  position,  and  lay  aside  their  ordinary  bearing,  to 
earn  a  suffrage  from  the  meanest  hind.  And  surely 
those  who  hang  around  us  in  life,  those  who  lean  on 
us,  or  on  whom  we  lean  through  our  pilgrimage,  to 
whom  our  accents  and  our  deeds  are  worlds,  to  whom 
a  word  may  shoot  a  pang  worse  than  the  stroke  of 
death ;  surely,  I  say,  if  we  can  do  so  much  for  interest, 
we  can  do  something  for  goodness  and  for  gratitude. 
And  in  all  civilized  intercourse,  how  perfectly  do  we  see 


152  TEMPER. 

it  ourselves  to  be  the  recognized  laws  of  decorum,  and 
if  we  have  not  universally  good  feelings,  we  have  gen- 
erally, at  least,  good  manners.  This  may  be  hypocrisy, 
but  it  ought  to  be  sincerity,  and  we  trust  it  is. 

If  then  we  can  make  our  faces  to  shine  on  strangers, 
why  darken  them  on  those  who  should  be  dear  to  us  ! 
Is  it,  that  we  have  so  squandered  our  smiles  abroad,  that 
we  have  only  frowns  to  carry  home  ?  Is  it,  that  while 
out  in  the  world,  we  have  been  so  prodigal  of  good 
temper,  that  we  have  but  our  ill  humors  with  which  to 
cloud  our  firesides?  Is  it,  that  it  requires  often  but 
a  mere  passing  guest  to  enter,  while  we  are  speaking 
daggers  to  beings  who  are  nearest  to  us  in  life,  to  change 
our  tone,  to  give  us  perfect  self-command,  that  we 
cannot  do  for  love,  what  we  do  for  appearance  ? 

Brethren,  we  can  rule  our  tempers,  and  we  ought. 
Open  the  gospel,  that  most  profound  philosophy  of 
the  human  soul,  and  yet  most  simple  and  practical 
directory  of  human  duty ;  study  it,  fill  your  whole 
nature  with  its  inspiration  ;  set  Christ  before  you  ;  look 
upon  his  calm  forehead,  his  unstormed  breast ;  think 
how  he  endured  all  contradiction  of  sinners,  and  en- 
dured them  to  the  cross  ;  and  on  the  cross  learn  of  him 
then,  for  he  was  meek  and  lowly  of  heart.  Think  of 
God,  and  of  the  holy  peace  which  is  a  part  of  his  per- 
fection, and  remember  that,  as  we  grow  into  conformity 


TEMPER.  153 

to  that,  we  are  more  and  more  his  children,  and  his 
heirs.  Think  of  Heaven,  in  which  we  picture  all 
unity,  all  goodness,  all  moral  beauty,  a  tranquil  and 
cloudless  light,  unpolluted  with  any  malignant,  or  stormy, 
or  angry  passions. 


THE   GUILT   OF    CONTEMPT. 


MATT.  v.  21,  22. 

YE  HAVE  HEARD  THAT  IT  WAS  SAID  BY  THEM  OF  OLD  TIME,  THOU 
SHALT  NOT  KILL  J  AND  WHOSOEVER  SHALL  KILL,  SHALL  BE  IN 
DANGER  OF  THE  JUDGMENT  :  BUT  I  SAY  UNTO  YOU,  THAT  WHOSO- 
EVER IS  ANGRY  WITH  HIS  BROTHER  WITHOUT  A  CAUSE,  SHALL  BE 
IN  DANGER  OF  THE  JUDGMENT:  AND  WHOSOEVER  SHALL  SAY  TO 
HIS  BROTHER,  RACA,  SHALL  BE  IN  DANGER  OF  THE  COUNCIL  :  BUT 
WHOSOEVER  SHALL  SAY,  THOU  FOOL,  SHALL  BE  IN  DANGER  OF 
HELL-FIRE. 

IN  order  to  take  in  clearly  the  spirit  of  this  passage, 
let  us  settle  in  our  minds  the  import  of  its  leading 
terms.  We  have  here  an  allusion  to  three  distinct 
kinds  of  offence,  and  to  three  distinct  kinds  of  penalty. 
First,  "  be  not  angry  with  your  brother  without  a  cause," 
or  you  shall  be  in  danger  of  "  the  judgment."  Secondly, 
call  him  not  "  Raca,"  or  you  shall  be  in  danger  of  "  the 
council."  Thirdly,  say  not  unto  him  "  thou  fool,"  or 
you  shall  be  in  danger  of  "  hell-fire  "  —  "  the  gehenna 
of  fire."  Here  is  a  climax  of  penalty ;  we  infer, 
therefore,  a  climax  of  guilt.  The  "  council  "  was  a 
subordinate  Jewish  court.  The  "judgment"  implies 


THE    GUILT    OF    CONTEMPT.  155 

a  still  higher  authority.  The  "  gehenna  of  fire  "  may 
be  understood  from  its  uses.  It  means  the  valley  of 
Hinnom,  a  place  near  Jerusalem,  were  once  children 
had  been  sacrificed  to  Moloch,  and  into  which,  long 
afterwards,  it  was  the  custom,  from  the  abomination 
that  attached  to  it,  to  cast  the  dead  bodies  of  male- 
factors. These  and  other  substances  needing  to  be 
consumed,  a  fire  was  incessantly  sustained  in  it;  and 
thence  it  came  to  be  called  the  gehenna  of  fire. 

Following  the  analogy  so  common  in  our  Lord's  — 
indeed,  in  all  Eastern  teaching,  by  which  the  spiritual  is 
elicited  from  the  literal  —  we  have  an  intimation  of  the 
order  in  which  these  several  offences  stand  by  the 
decision  of  the  holiest  and  the  best.  Anger  is  a  passion 
of  resistance  ;  and  this  unjustly  or  excessively  per- 
mitted, is  worthy  of  rebuke.  But  resistance  concedes 
to  an  opponent  a  species  of  equality.  Anger  is  a 
passion,  therefore,  that  in  some  sense  implies  honor  in 
the  object,  and  does  not  wholly  debase  him.  It  is  not, 
therefore,  as  guilty  as  to  call  him  "  Raca"  —  a  term  of 
levity  and  ridicule  —  which,  by  robbing  its  object  of 
the  dignity  that  anger  presupposes,  merits  a  still  deeper 
condemnation.  But,  "  Thou  fool  "  —  or,  as  the  original 
more  strongly  has  it,  "  Thou  impious,  thou  wretch," 
covers  a  human  being  with  such  odium  and  such 
abhorrence,  that  he  who  applies  the  phrase  or  enter- 


156  THE   GUILT    OF   CONTEMPT. 

tains  the  spirit  of  it,  subjects  himself  to  the  reprobation 
of  outraged  humanity  and  offended  Heaven.  He  strips 
his  brother  of  all  worth,  of  all  nobleness  ;  he  excom- 
municates him  from  his  reverence,  from  his  affections, 
and  takes  upon  his  own  head  the  guilt  of  a  heavy  male- 
diction. Anger  may  be  sinful ;  decisive  ridicule  cer- 
tainly is  so.  Contempt  is  the  blackest  and  the  worst  of 
all.  But  the  passage  involves  a  contrast  as  well  as  a 
climax  :  a  contrast  of  the  gospel  to  the  law.  The  law 
took  note  of  outward  transgression ;  the  gospel,  of  the 
inward  disposition.  The  law  made  criminal,  injury  to 
man's  body,  his  property,  or  his  name ;  but  the  gospel 
marked,  with  more  solemn  indignation,  injustice  to  his 
soul,  the  denial  of  his  spiritual  claims,  the  violation  of 
his  spiritual  rights. 

Contempt,  contempt  of  humanity  in  any  form  of 
man,  is  a  great  sin.  This  is  the  doctrine  of  Jesus. 
That  man  is  of  worth  infinite  and  ineffable,  is  the  spirit 
of  his  teaching,  of  his  practice,  of  his  life  ;  the  import 
of  his  mission,  the  significance  of  his  passion  and  his 
death  :  and,  therefore,  to  trample  this  worth  in  scorn,  is 
to  count  the  blood  of  the  covenant  an  unholy  thing  ;  to 
commit  one  of  the  darkest  offences  known  in  the  ethics 
of  the  Gospel. 

We  may  trace  the  guilt  of  contempt  in  the  evil  of  its 
temper.  Of  course,  I  do  not  speak,  here,  of  that  sense 


THE   GUILT    OF   CONTEMPT.  157 

of  unworthiness  which  we  cannot  help  feeling  for  what 
is  vile  and  degrading ;  I  speak  of  that  harsh  disposition 
in  which  contempt  is  a  habit  or  a  principle.  Thus  con- 
sidered, it  is  evil,  and  always  evil.  It  cannot,  for  a 
moment,  clothe  itself  with  the  vesture  or  appearance 
of  an  angel.  It  has  the  essence  of  a  moral  atheism  ; 
and  of  all  atheisms  this  is  the  worst.  If  atheism  of 
mere  intellect  be  possible,  it  does  not  necessarily  ex- 
clude some  broken  aspirations.  A  speculative  atheism 
is  conceivable,  which  could  recognize  separate  ele- 
ments of  excellence,  and  separately  appreciate  them  ; 
and  though  unhappily  astray  from  a  Supreme  Object, 
has  at  least,  in  chaos,  the  substance  of  reverence  and 
devotion.  It  may  have  ideals  of  beauty,  of  truth,  of 
power,  and  of  goodness  ;  and,  while  it  does  not  confess 
the  personality  of  God,  unconsciously,  it  may  do  honor 
to  his  attributes.  But  so  it  is  not  with  moral  atheism  ; 
and,  practically,  contempt  leaves  the  heart  without  a 
God.  It  wants  all  the  faculties  which  have  affinity 
with  the  godlike. 

Contempt  has  no  faculty  of  admiration.  It  appre- 
hends only  inferiority  and  abasement ;  and  apprehends 
them  only  with  partiality  and  falsehood.  It  is  unable 
to  discern  honorable  and  honest  qualities  visible  and 
distinct,  much  less  the  claims  of  mere  humanity  when 
concealed  by  many  obscurations.  If,  perchance,  it 


158  THE   GUILT   OF   CONTEMPT. 

must  look  on  that  which  cannot  be  hidden,  and  acknow- 
ledge that  which  cannot  be  denied,  it  looks  with  no 
complacency,  and  it  acknowledges  with  no  affection. 
Presuming  as  it  does,  to  spurn  others,  as  unworthy,  it 
is  wholly  ignorant  of  that  which  constitutes  the  deepest 
unworthiness.  Until  we  have  understood  the  capacities 
of  a  nature,  we  cannot  measure  its  abuses  ;  until  we 
have  fathomed  its  capability  for  excellence,  we  know 
little  of  its  ruin  in  transgression.  The  malignity  of  sin 
is  revealed  only  to  the  soul,  when  it  has  comprehended 
the  divinity  of  goodness.  But  from  such  comprehension 
the  spirit  of  contempt  is  excluded  by  the  malediction  of 
its  own  bitterness.  Contempt  has,  therefore,  no  faculty 
of  reverence.  It  has  no  sense  of  greatness,  no  sense 
of  beauty  ;  it  has  no  faith  in  the  spiritual,  and  no  trust 
in  the  human  ;  it  believes  not  in  the  immutability  of 
truth,  it  confides  not  in  the  omnipotence  of  right.  It 
has,  of  consequence,  neither  saints  nor  heroes,  neither 
martyrs  nor  patriots ;  but  lives  unfavored  in  the  seclu- 
sion of  its  own  dark  and  godless  being. 

A  gloomy  spirit  is  this  —  a  spirit  misanthropic,  a 
spirit  of  denial ;  it  has  no  altar,  it  has  no  worship ;  it 
has  not  even  the  wretched  worship  of  idolatry.  In  a 
grand  and  pure  worship,  the  soul  is  lifted  up,  drawn 
away  from  self,  and  absorbed  in  the  glory  of  its  object. 
It  does  not  so  much  reflect  on  it,  as  it  exists  in  it ;  in 


THE   GUILT    OF   CONTEMPT.  159 

it  lives,  moves,  and  has  its  being.  Hence  supreme 
worship  must  have  its  element  in  the  infinite  and  per- 
fect, and  that  is,  in  the  one  true  and  only  God.  That 
which  creates  MS,  we  worship  ;  but  that  which  we  cre- 
ate, ourselves,  that  in  which  we  find  ourselves  em- 
bodied, we  idolize.  But  though  idolatry  embodies  self, 
yet  it  is  self  projected,  self  taking  some  outward  sem- 
blance. The  savage  carves  a  piece  of  wood  into  the 
image  which  his  fears  have  shaped ;  the  Grecian  sculp- 
tor chisels  a  piece  of  marble  into  a  form  which  the 
highest  fancy  has  conceived ;  and  both  the  barbarian 
and  the  Greek  thus  embody  a  portion  of  their  own 
being  in  some  independent  and  outward  existence. 
Contempt  does  not  get  even  so  far  as  this ;  but  broods 
over  its  own  chaos,  enthroned  on  its  own  pride. 

Contempt  has  no  faculty  of  love.  It  is  subversive  of 
all  amiable  relations  ;  for  these  relations  can  only  coex- 
ist with  perceptions  of  goodness  and  beauty,  and  with- 
out such  perceptions  they  must  perish.  Contempt  ex- 
cludes them  in  every  idea  we  can  form  of  it ;  it  has  no 
such  perceptions,  and  admits  no  such  relations.  To 
hold  an  object  in  love  and  yet  contempt,  to  despise  and 
yet  desire,  to  appreciate  and  yet  scorn,  is  a  contradic- 
tion so  strange  and  so  absurd,  that  it  could  never  enter 
any  sane  imagination.  To  the  degree,  then,  that  we 
place  our  neighbor  before  us,  as  an  object  of  contempt, 


160 


THE    GUILT    OF    CONTEMPT. 


we  cut  him  off  from  all  the  best  charities  of  our  hearts  ; 
we  render  him  an  outcast  from  all  the  holy  offices  of 
fraternity. 

As  a  natural  result,  this  disposition  must  be  fatal  to 
every  brotherly  sympathy  ;  for,  of  all  antagonisms, 
scorn  is  the  most  repulsive.  I  do  not  say,  that  even 
scorn  may  not  be  melted  by  the  last  necessities  of 
want,  and  that,  in  extremity,  it  would  stand  between 
a  sufferer  and  the  ministries  he  needed  ;  I  do  not 
say,  that  the  most  scornful  might  not  pity  the  forlorn, 
take  the  stranger  for  a  season  to  a  home,  give  the 
orphan  a  refuge,  and  the  widow  a  support ;  I  do  not 
say,  that  the  scornful  would  weep  with  no  mournful 
emotion  where  fire  had  turned  a  city  to  a  blackened 
wilderness,  where  plague  had  changed  it  to  a  charnel- 
house,  or  where  earthquake  had  crumbled  it  to  rubbish  ; 
I  do  not  say,  that  the  scornful  would  not  even  feed  an 
enemy  in  his  hunger,  and  give  him  drink  in  his  thirst ; 
but  all  this  and  more,  is  not  enough,  if  we  do  not  re- 
spect a  man's  nature,  and  hold  the  man  himself  with  us 
in  the  community  of  all  that  entitles  that  nature  to 
honor. 

Contempt,  then,  is  a  great  sin  —  contempt  of  man. 
It  is  at  variance  with  the  highest  principles,  and  with 
the  highest  being  ;  it  is  at  variance  with  faith,  for  it 
sees  not  the  invisible ;  it  is  blind  in  heart  to  the  in- 


THE    GUILT    OF    CONTEMPT.  1G1 

visible  glory  which  in  every  man  is  enshrined  ;  it  is 
blind  in  heart  to  the  solemn  destiny  for  which  every 
man  is  born.  It  is  at  variance  with  hope  ;  it  is  founded 
on  denial,  a  denial  of  capacity  in  the  worst  for  improve- 
ment ;  a  denial  of  life  in  the  lowest,  which  may  be 
awakened  in  a  new  resurrection ;  a  denial  of  the  worth 
which  lies  treasured  in  every  soul,  and  which,  though 
it  may  be  long  tarnished  and  defaced,  may  yet  have  its 
season  of  renovation,  when  it  will  shine  as  the  stars  in 
glory.  It  is  at  variance  with  charity,  which  includes 
both  faith  and  hope,  and  is  their  end  and  their  per- 
fection ;  for  charity  believeth  all  things  and  hopeth  all 
things;  and  charity  is  not  only  pitiful,  but  reverential, 
not  only  most  loving,  but  most  humble.  It  is  at  variance 
with  God,  who  despiseth  nothing  that  he  has  made, 
and  in  whose  fatherly  light  all  men  stand  equally  as 
children.  It  is  at  variance  with  humanity,  which  the 
Creator  made  sacred  with  his  likeness,  and  made  im- 
mortal with  his  spirit.  It  is  at  variance  with  Christ,  the 
mediator  between  God  and  man,  by  whom  a  Father  in 
heaven  was  revealed,  in  whom  humanity  on  earth  was 
perfect.  In  Christ's  humanity  every  man  has  brother- 
hood ;  and  in  Christ's  brotherhood  every  man  has 
honor.  If  there  be  one  in  our  universal  race  whom  the 
good  spirit  of  Jesus  would  have  scorned  or  desipsed, 
then,  with  impunity,  that  wretch  you  may  scorn  and 
11 


162  THE   GUILT   OF   CONTEMPT. 

despise ;  but,  if  you  can  find  no  such  wretch,  at  your 
own  peril  you  must  venture,  and  upon  your  own  soul 
be  the  consequences. 

I  have  spoken  of  this  ungodly  temper,  this  most  un- 
christ-like  disposition,  as  yet,  in  its  abstract  relations. 
As  it  exists  in  actual  character,  it  must,  of  course,  be 
greatly  mixed  and  modified.  But  in  no  single  actual 
character,  can  it  be  a  permanent  or  prominent  attribute, 
for  such  a  character  would  not  be  human,  but  diabol- 
ical. If  asked,  however,  to  specify  those,  by  whom,  in 
ordinary  life,  it  is  most  commonly  manifested,  I  would 
answer,  —  by  the  pedant  in  knowledge  ;  by  the  phar- 
isee  in  morals ;  and  by  the  bigot  in  religion.  The 
pedant  is  shut  up  in  small  delusions,  and  walks  in  vain 
conceits.  His  path  is  narrow,  and  his  horizon  a  speck. 
He  has  learned  many  things  which  others  do  not  know, 
but  he  considers  not  how  many  things  others  know 
which  he  has  not  learned ;  neither  does  he  consider, 
that  if  exchange  were  made,  possibly  the  gain  might 
be  his,  and  the  loss  would  be  theirs.  The  pedant  is 
one  who  reads  much,  and  thinks  little ;  has  many 
words,  but  few  ideas :  one  who  does  not,  like  the 
august  and  illustrious  Newton,  compare  the  discovery 
which  grasped  a  universe  to  the  finding  of  a  pebble,  but 
rather  mistakes  the  finding  of  a  pebble  for  the  grasping 
of  a  universe.  This  man,  insensible  to  his  own  insig- 


THE    GUILT    OF    CONTEMPT.  163 

nificance,  despises  others  because  he  is  thus  insensible  ; 
he  is  not  aware  of  his  own  insignificance,  and  there- 
fore scorns  an  ignorance,  which,  perhaps,  is  only  dif- 
ferent from  his  own.  Wisdom  is  tolerant,  because  it 
has  insight ;  it  has  large  discourse  of  reason,  because  it 
has  much  converse  with  experience  ;  wisdom  is  humble, 
because  it  knows  amidst  what  mysteries  it  lives  — 
mysteries,  that  with  some  scattered  stars  upon  the  mar- 
gin, leave,  on  all  sides  of  them,  a  night  immeasurable 
and  unfathomable. 

The  pharisee  is  to  morals,  what  the  pedant  is  to 
knowledge ;  a  being  of  minuteness  and  formalities. 
Conformity  and  not  conscience  is  the  essence  of  his 
morality  ;  and  whatever  offends  against  conformity, 
whether  it  be  true  to  conscience,  or  not,  is  his  highest 
idea  of  transgression.  The  principle  or  soul  of  a 
character,  he  cannot  apprehend  ;  he  can  only  judge 
whether  the  outward  man  walks  in  the  traditions  of  the 
elders  ;  and  if  he  does  not,  it  bodes  him  ill,  if  the 
pharisee  has  power.  The  pharisee  can  only  read  what 
is  set  down  for  him,  and  he  quenches  the  spirit  of  God 
by  the  letter  of  the  scribes.  There  is,  even  in  very 
imperfect  characters,  much  of  compensation  ;  but  the 
pharisee  can  see  nothing  of  this.  Evil  may  be  apparent 
in  one  direction,  while  an  earnest  tendency  for  good  may 
lie  in  another ;  but  the  pharisee  can  see  nothing  of  this. 


164 


THE   GUILT    OF    CONTEMPT. 


There  is  also  in  sin,  actual  sin,  known  to  be  sin,  such 
depths  of  misery ;  such  ruin,  grief,  remorse  ;  such 
haggard  wretchedness  ;  such  hopeless  endurances  ;  that 
the  good  man  regards  it  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 
The  pharisee  cannot  understand  this.  There  are,  too, 
so  many  elements  of  love  that  often  survive  through 
guilt  and  shame,  that  the  good  man,  instead  of  spurning 
a  victim  with  the  voice  of  judgment,  would  win  him 
with  the  call  of  mercy  ;  and  this,  least  of  all,  can  the 
pharisee  understand.  Can  you  wonder  then,  that  the 
pharisee  did  not  understand  our  Saviour  ?  Can  you 
wonder  that  he  was  offended  with  Jesus,  who  could 
smile  on  the  outcast ;  who  could  eat  with  those  whom 
the  man  of  long  prayers  would  not  touch  with  the  hem 
of  his  garment ;  who  could  melt  the  hearts  to  penitence 
which  this  man's  scorn  had  done  much  to  harden ;  who 
could  tell  this  man  himself,  that  publicans  and  harlots 
would  go  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven  before  him  ?  It 
was  surely,  on  the  whole,  no  marvel,  that  this  despiser 
of  the  sinful  should  hate  and  crucify  their  Saviour  and 
their  Redeemer. 

But  the  darkest  of  all  scorners  is  the  bigot;  for, 
with  a  presumption  in  the  measure  of  his  contempt,  he 
calls  men  common  or  unclean,  when  they  believe 
otherwise  than  he  believes ;  and  while  he  takes  to 
himself  the  seal  of  salvation,  marks  them  with  the 


THE   GUILT   OF   CONTEMPT.  165 

brand  of  perdition.  I  do  not  call  the  man  a  bigot,  who 
merely  supposes  another  lost  in  his  error,  for  this  may 
be  a  conviction  which  he  cannot  resist.  He  may  be  a 
man,  I  admit,  of  tenderness  and  mercy  ;  he  may  hold 
his  opinion  with  fear  and  trembling,  and  look  upon  his 
brother  whom  he  regards  in  the  path  of  ruin,  with 
exceeding  sorrow  and  compassion.  But  the  bigot  is 
not  thus.  Proud  in  his  assumed  humility,  elated  in  his 
vociferated  deprecation,  secure  in  his  fancied  election, 
confident  as  the  favorite  of  grace,  his  faith  becomes 
actual  in  a  spiritual  intolerance,  and  a  practical  ex- 
clusiveness.  He  is  the  one,  who  says  most  emphati- 
cally to  his  brother,  "  Thou  fool,"  "  Thou  impious," 
"  Thou  wretch." 

Is  this  mere  supposition  ?  Take  knowledge  then  of 
the  fact,  not  from  the  present  Church,  but  from  history, 
and  see  with  what  a  cruel  and  sustained  malice,  this 
deadly  temper  could  hunt  its  victims  to  despair,  hoot 
them  with  yells  of  despising  hatred,  tread  them  down 
to  vileness,  and  trample  on  their  prostrate  bodies  and 
their  prostrate  souls.  Behold  the  hapless  Jews  of  the 
middle  ages,  the  long  enduring  martyrs  of  Christian 
persecution,  bigot,  contempt  and  bigotry,  scorn ;  yes, 
through  weary  and  weary  centuries  a  storm  of  injury 
beat  on  their  unsheltered  heads,  and  they  have  survived, 
only  by  bending  to  it ;  yes,  through  weary,  weary  cen- 


166 


THE   GUILT    OF    CONTEMPT. 


turies,  insult   and    ferocity  were  for   the  race  whom 
Moses  governed,  and  from  whom  Jesus  sprung. 

The  guilt  of  contempt  is  thus  clear  in  the  evil  of  its 
temper ;  the  guilt  of  contempt  is  no  less  clear  in  the 
evil  of  its  consequences.  Contempt  lies  at  the  root  of 
all  abuses  which  are  most  inhuman  ;  it  lies  at  the  root 
of  all  abuses  which  have  created  most  misery,  of  all 
abuses  which  have  given  misery  the  most  lasting 
power.  Contempt  of  humanity  is  the  most  notable 
cause  of  wrong  to  humanity.  A  blindness  to  the 
grandeur  that  is  in  man,  to  the  worth  of  his  nature  and 
his  soul,  is  that  which  generates  the  hardihood  that  can 
behold  suffering,  or  that  can  enforce  it.  Insensibility 
to  the  worth  of  man  had  given  up  the  guilty  to  cruelty 
and  despair.  It  was  this  which  wrote  laws  in  blood, 
and  buried  persons  in  darkness ;  and  not  until  a  better 
spirit  prevailed,  did  mercy  change  the  blood  for  tears, 
and  raise  the  persons  to  the  light.  As  there  was  no 
honor,  there  was  no  hope  ;  and  punishment  without 
benevolence,  gratified  only  the  savage  instinct  to  give 
pain.  And  so  it  was  with  the  sinful  and  other  classes — 
consigned  to  infamy  on  which  no  beam  of  pity  fell, 
isolated  to  a  cheerless  destiny,  scorned  from  sympathy, 
with  no  way  for  amendment  or  reform,  they  naturally 
went  from  transgression  to  desperation,  and  from  des- 
peration to  impenitence.  A  light  has  been  taken  in  our 


THE   GUILT   OF   CONTEMPT.  167 

kinder  times  and  by  the  hand  of  charity,  to  guide 
transgressors  into  ways  of  peace.  True,  the  power 
of  Christian  love,  is  yet  but  feebly  trusted,  and  many 
most  unhappy  but  not  most  guilty,  are  left  to  perish  ; 
still  the  good  Samaritans  are  gaining  in  courage,  and 
gaining  in  number ;  and  with  the  noiseless  steps  of 
evangelical  compassion,  they  seek  the  secluded  paths 
of  the  penitent  and  afflicted  ;  and  wherever  are  the 
wretched,  there  they  find  their  mission  and  find  their 
work. 

Insensibility  to  the  worth  of  man  has  been  the  in- 
iquity of  rulers,  and  the  source  of  wrongs  innumerable 
to  millions.  It  has  robbed  them  of  their  labor ;  it  has 
taken  the  sweat  of  their  brow,  and  not  given  them 
bread  in  their  toil ;  it  has  chained  them  to  the  yoke, 
and  has  not  shared  with  them  the  fruits  which  they  had 
earned.  It  placed  in  every  palace  a  Dives  who  fared 
sumptuously,  and  cared  not  for  the  hands  that  fed  him. 
It  placed  in  every  cottage  a  Lazarus,  who  contributed 
to  the  feast  from  which  he  could  not  even  get  the 
crumbs.  It  has  robbed  them  of  their  rationality ; 
delivered  them  to  a  dire  brute  ignorance  ;  intercepted 
all  light  from  their  immortal  souls,  and  left  them  to 
grope  in  a  dreary  bondage-land  for  any  other  destiny, 
than  that  which  appetite  might  indicate,  or  which 
muscle  might  accomplish.  It  has  robbed  them  of  their 
lives. 


168  THE   GUILT    OF   CONTEMPT. 

In  nothing  is  insensibility  to  the  worth  of  man  more 
horribly  evident  than  in  disregard  to  human  life.  Look 
at  this  matter ;  consider  it ;  see  whether  it  is  not  so, 
since  the  beginning  of  history.  Have  not  conquerors 
ever  been  the  same  ?  Have  they  not  always  counted 
men  as  they  counted  clods,  and  estimated  the  relations 
of  vital  forces  with  as  little  thought  of  misery  or  happi- 
ness as  if  these  forces  had  been  mechanical  and  not 
mortal  ?  Had  such  thought  operated,  surely  humanity 
would  have  been  spared  a  thousand  wars  which  have 
cursed  it ;  and  millions  who  have  been  marched  to  the 
slaughter  of  hellish  conflict,  by  insane  ambition,  would 
have  closed  their  eyes  in  peace,  with  benison  and 
prayer.  But  these  multitudes  of  the  lowly  had  no 
reverence  before  kings  :  they  were  simply  a  certain 
quantity  of  motive  power  of  disposable  physical  energy, 
to  be  directed  as  their  masters'  will  impelled  ;  mere 
instruments  to  be  used  or  broken,  as  their  master's 
pleasure  required.  Insensibility  to  the  worth  of  man 
is  at  the  bottom  of  all  Slaveries  —  white  Slaveries  or 
black. 

The  essence  of  tyranny  is  contempt  :  this  is  its 
origin,  and  this  its  perpetuation.  Woman  is  the  first  in 
the  order  of  captives,  for  the  savage  despises  weakness  ; 
and  the  husband-savage,  who  coerces  and  yet  insults 
his  wife,  is  the  first  master  in  a  house  of  bondage. 


THE   GUILT   OF    CONTEMPT.  169 

And  woman  continues  to  be  a  slave,  whether  as  drudge 
to  her  savage  lord,  or  delight  to  her  civilized  superior, 
until  her  spiritual  worth  is  apprehended,  her  moral 
dignity  acknowledged,  and  her  liberty  recognized  in 
the  glory  of  the  soul.  Contempt,  I  repeat,  is  the 
essence  of  tyranny  :  it  is  the  spirit  of  oppression  ;  it  is 
the  most  deadly  foe  to  freedom.  It  is  a  chain  for  the 
slave,  stronger  than  all  the  manacles  which  were  ever 
forged  ;  it  is  worse  than  bandages  of  iron  seventy  times 
enfolded  ;  it  fixes  generations  after  generations  where 
the  stern  allotments  of  caste  have  placed  them  ;  it 
would  render  degradation  an  eternal  and  a  changeless 
fate.  It  fastens  the  serf  to  the  soil  of  his  lord,  and  by 
the  will  of  that  lord  the  space  is  determined,  in  which 
he  has  leave  to  toil  and  leave  to  live.  Yea,  yet  more 
than  this  combined  with  rapacity,  it  has  torn  the  poor 
barbarian  from  his  native  earth,  from  every  instinctive 
affection  and  every  human  privilege  ;  it  has  crammed 
him  in  a  wooden  hell ;  and  if  life  could  stand  the  tug 
of  torture,  borne  him  to  his  doom  through  the  wild  roar 
of  waters.  There  is  a  pathway  paved  with  bones 
across  the  broad  Atlantic ;  and  every  fathom  beneath  is 
a  black  man's  sepulchre,  and  every  wave  above  has 
been  his  winding  sheet.  Oh,  if  the  ocean  could  give 
up  its  dead  !  Oh,  if  these  bones  could  live  !  a  cloud  of 
witnesses  against  the  iniquity  of  Christendom  would 


170  THE   GUILT   OF   CONTEMPT. 

gather  from  the  caverns  of  the  deep,  to  affright  the 
earth,  to  appal  and  overshadow  the  heavens ! 

Who  will  say,  that  contempt  had  no  part  in  this 
terrific  wrong  ?  Who  will  say,  that  contempt  did  noth- 
ing to  perpetuate  the  bondage  which  this  terrific  wrong 
commenced.  We  know  that  the  uncivilized  heart  is 
cruel  to  what  is  strange,  and  cruel  from  contempt.  It 
despises  a  difference  of  manners,  or  of  person  ;  and 
it  compares  all  disadvantageously  with  itself.  But 
rapacity  can  render  the  unsanctified  heart  as  cruel  as 
the  uncivilized  ;  and  this,  the  sufferings  of  unhappy  and 
unprotected  millions  all  over  the  sinful  world,  can 
testify  with  groanings  which  cannot  be  uttered  !  Con- 
tempt—  stern,  heartless,  and  godless  —  in  every  place 
of  this  sinful  earth  where  man  causes  grief  to  man  in 
permanent  injustice  —  yes,  in  every  such  afflicted  place, 
contempt  lives  and  rules.  Wherever  the  weak,  the  poor, 
the  ignorant,  the  lowly,  are  alienated  and  wronged, 
there  contempt  is  present  and  predominant.  Said  I  not 
well,  then,  that  contempt  is  a  great  sin  —  a  sin  which 
has  its  testimonies  in  all  the  testimonies  of  oppression, 
in  the  sighs  of  unrewarded  toil,  in  the  degradation  of 
working  masses,  in  the  power  of  stern  aristocracies, 
in  the  carnages  of  war,  in  miseries  and  slaveries  almost 
as  old  as  the  world,  and  as  wide. 

The  spirit  of  contempt  is  the  true  spirit  of  Antichrist, 


THE    GUILT    OF    CONTEMPT. 


171 


for  no  other  is  more  directly  opposed  to  Christ.  When 
Jesus  entered  on  his  ministry,  it  was  the  master  passion 
of  the  times,  whether  in  the  haughty  Roman  or  the 
scornful  Jew  ;  in  the  Roman,  proud  ;  and  in  the  Jew, 
austere.  Against  Jesus,  this  temper  came  in  deadly 
conflict ;  and  from  none  was  the  opposition  fiercer  than 
from  his  own  countrymen.  In  one  form  or  another, 
the  temper  pervaded  Jewish  life.  It  sat  in  the  chair  of 
the  scribe ;  it  presided  on  the  tribunal  of  the  judge  ;  it 
walked  in  the  market-place  ;  it  took  the  chief  rooms  at 
feasts ;  it  claimed  the  highest  seats  in  the  synagogues  ; 
and  it  prayed  with  lofty  looks  in  the  temple.  Our 
Lord  scouted  this  ungodliness  with  a  holy  opposition. 
He  met  it  by  the  inculcation  of  a  humble  and  a  loving 
spirit ;  by  the  revelation  of  a  heavenly  dignity  in  hu- 
manity, which  rebuked  scornful  assumption  as  both 
mean  and  blasphemous.  And  then  to  words,  such  as 
men  had  never  heard,  he  added  an  example  such  as 
men  had  never  seen.  He  went  himself  among  the 
outcast ;  he  took  his  part  with  the  despised ;  he  so- 
journed among  the  scorned  ;  he  was  to  be  found  mixed 
with  the  vulgar  multitude  ;  he  was  to  be  met  in  poor 
men's  homes  and  at  poor  men's  meals.  The  publican 
whom  the  pharisee  spurned,  received  from  Jesus  no 
rebuke  ;  the  sinner  and  Samaritan  addressed  him  as 
their  friend ;  and  those  whom  all  had  given  to  repro- 


172  THE   GUILT    OF   CONTEMPT. 

ballon,  whom  the  world  had  marked  with  ineffable  in- 
famy, came  to  Jesus,  attracted  by  the  grace  that  was 
around  him,  and  took  from  his  lips  the  words  of  for- 
giveness, and  the  assurance  of  peace. 

And  that  his  example  might  in  all  things  be  com- 
plete, his  ministry  ended  as  it  had  begun.  He  came 
not  to  call  the  righteous,  but  sinners  to  repentance ; 
and  as  in  life  he  did  not  shun  the  wretched,  he  was 
numbered  with  the  transgressors  in  his  death.  Con- 
tumely, hatred,  insult,  collected  together  to  hoot  him 
from  existence,  until  nailed  upon  the  cross  —  the  in- 
strument of  vile  and  ignominious  torture  —  between 
two  thieves,  he  gave  up  the  ghost.  The  spirit  of  that 
life,  the  spirit  of  that  death,  yet  maintained  the  contest ; 
and  the  contest  will  not  end,  until  this  fated  temper  is 
subdued  ;  until  every  man  has  due  honor,  as  a  child  of 
God,  and  a  brother  of  Jesus ;  until  every  man  feels  in 
himself,  and  recognizes  in  his  fellow  the  divinity  of  an 
immortal  soul,  and  the  dignity  of  everlasting  relations. 
Not  until  right  is  founded  on  reverence,  will  it  be  se- 
cure ;  not  until  duty  is  based  upon  love,  will  it  be  com- 
plete ;  not  until  liberty  is  based  upon  eternal  principles, 
will  it  be  full,  equal,  lofty,  and  universal.  Then,  and 
only  then,  will  the  mind  of  Christ  have  entered  into  the 
heart  of  the  millions,  who,  as  yet,  have  but  his  name 
upon  their  lips ;  then  will  his  true  kingdom  have  en- 


THE   GUILT    OF   CONTEMPT.  173 

larged  its  bounds  and  increased  its  glory ;  then  shall 
his  sceptre  have  sway,  and  his  throne  be  established  in 
justice,  in  virtue,  and  in  freedom. 

Oh,  that  each  of  us  had  the  hallowed  spirit  of  our 
divine  master  abiding  within  us !  He,  who  had  the 
wealth  of  heaven,  despised  no  poverty.  He,  who  had 
the  wisdom  of  God,  companioned  with  the  ignorant  and 
the  rude.  He,  who  was  without  blemish  and  without 
spot,  —  whom  no  man  could  accuse  of  sin,  —  with 
whom  Jehovah,  the  righteous  and  the  holy,  was  well 
pleased, —  did  not  scorn  the  sinful;  he  did  pity  them. 
O  man,  whosoever  thou  art,  that  trustest  in  thyself  and 
despisest  others ;  0  man,  whosoever  thou  art,  that  look- 
est  on  thy  brother  with  social  or  with  spiritual  con- 
tempt ;  O  man,  whosoever  thou  art,  that  sayest  to  thy 
brother,  even  in  the  whisperings  of  thy  thought,  "  Thou 
fool,  stand  aside,  for  I  am  nobler,  I  am  wiser,  I  am 
holier  than  thou," —  turn  to  the  face  of  God's  anointed 
and  be  covered  with  repentant  shame  ;  turn  to  the  face 
of  God's  anointed,  be  of  converted  heart,  and  do  this 
evil  thing  no  more,  no  more  forever. 


EVANGELICAL   GOODNESS. 


MARK  xii.  41-44. 

AND  JESUS  SAT  OVER  AGAINST  THE  TREASURY,  AND  BEHELD  HOW 
THE  PEOPLE  CAST  MONEY  INTO  THE  TREASURY  I  AND  MANY  THAT 
WERE  RICH  CAST  IN  MUCH  ;  AND  THERE  CAME  A  POOR  WIDOW, 
AND  SHE  THREW  IN  TWO  MITES,  WHICH  MAKE  A  FARTHING. 
AND  HE  CALLED  UNTO  HIM  HIS  DISCIPLES,  AND  SA1TH  UNTO  THEM, 
VERILY  I  SAY  UNTO  YOU,  THIS  POOR  WIDOW  HATH  CAST  IN  MORE 
THAN  ALL  THEY  WHICH  HAVE  CAST  INTO  THE  TREASURY.  FOR 
ALL  THEY  DID  CAST  IN  OF  THEIR  ABUNDANCE  :  BUT  SHE  OF  HER 
WANT  DID  CAST  IN  ALL  THAT  SHE  HAD,  EVEN  ALL  HER  LIVING. 

THE  scene  described  in  this  passage  is  most  impres- 
sive and  affecting  when  we  contemplate  it  from  the 
position  of  our  Saviour.  Much  there  is  of  solemn  beau- 
ty in  the  mere  situation  and  the  surrounding  view,  but 
this  becomes  tragic  and  sublime  when  connected  with 
its  spiritual  associations.  Before,  was  the  temple  with 
all  its  national  memories,  and  all  its  suggested  sanc- 
tity ;  its  majesty  unbent,  and  its  loveliness  unsoiled  ; 
but  ere  a  few  years  should  roll  along,  its  glory  would 
be  scattered  in  the  dust.  Jerusalem  was  then  a  city  of 
life  and  action,  but  the  time  was  coming,  was  near  at 


EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS.  175 

hand,  when  desolations  would  be  in  her  streets,  and 
solitude  in  her  palaces.  The  Roman  eagle,  it  is  true, 
had  already  flapped  above  her  with  his  blood-stained 
wings  ;  the  Roman  arm  had  already  crushed  her  inde- 
pendence, still  there  was  something  of  the  past,  in 
which  the  children  of  Zion  might  exult.  A  voice  from 
the  Sanctuary  told  what  they  once  had  been ;  the  cloud 
of  former  greatness  still  lay  upon  existing  monuments; 
the  spirits  of  patriarchs  and  prophets  addressed  them 
from  the  tombs  ;  and  while  the  temple  raised  its  towers 
in  their  sight,  one  grand  object,  at  least  remained, 
around  which  they  could  assemble  with  delight,  and  on 
which  they  could  gaze  without  a  blush. 

While  our  Saviour  overlooked  this  scene,  and  saw 
with  sad  concern  the  immediate  future  big  with  destruc- 
tion, and  ready  to  engulf  it,  it  is  no  irreverence  against 
him,  to  suppose,  that  he  thought  not  unmoved  of  his 
own  sufferings,  which  were  soon  to  take  place  here, — 
sufferings  to  which  more  than  once  he  had  vaguely 
pointed,  but  of  which  lately  he  had  plainly  spoken. 
It  is  no  irreverence  against  him  to  suppose,  that  he  saw, 
not  without  shrinking,  the  cup  of  sorrow  drawing  to- 
wards him  with  invisible  approaches,  and  which  would 
quickly  be  at  his  lips ;  that  he  saw  not,  without  revul- 
sion, the  passion  of  many  agonies  that  awaited  him, 
with  the  cross  of  shame  and  torture  rising  up  in  the 


176  EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS. 

midst  of  them ;  and  it  is  not  irreverence  against,  but 
affection  for  him,  to  suppose,  that  grief  lay  the  more 
heavily  on  his  soul,  by  the  knowledge  that  such  things 
must  come  upon  him  in  the  city  of  his  kindred,  at  the 
hands  of  brethren,  whom  to  the  last  he  loved ;  whom 
he  would  so  often  have  gathered  together  to  shield 
from  the  destroyer,  even  as  a  hen  gathereth  her  chick- 
ens under  her  wings. 

Our  Saviour  mused  and  was  silent.  Numbers  were 
collecting  to  the  treasury  of  the  temple,  and  passing 
away  again.  Many  conspicuous  personages,  doubtless, 
were  among  the  crowd.  The  zealous  pharisee  would  be 
there  ;  and  the  learned  scribe,  and  the  reigning  dema- 
gogue, and  the  popular  doctor,  and  the  eloquent  orator  ; 
there  would  be  the  priest,  to  whom  the  temple  was 
dear  as  witness  to  the  authority  of  his  order ;  there 
would  be  the  patriot,  to  whom  the  temple  was  not  less 
dear  as  witness  to  the  glory  of  his  country.  Our  Sa- 
viour specifies  no  one  of  these  ;  he  allowed  them  to 
pass  on ;  he  left  them  to  obscurity.  He  mused,  and 
still  was  silent.  The  temple  with  all  its  garniture, 
moulders  in  the  ashes  of  centuries ;  the  names  of  those 
who  were  the  most  noted  in  assemblies  are  buried  in 
its  silence ;  but  the  whole  of  them  lie.  in  the  deep  of 
the  Past,  and  no  epitaph  exists  above  them,  to  mark 
their  grave.  Our  Saviour  mused,  and  was  silent ;  but 


EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS.  177 

as  he  mused,  a  widow  came,  and  cast  in  two  mites  that 
made  a  farthing,  and  her's  was  the  offering  which  our 
Saviour  noted.  He  perceived  in  it  the  inward  good- 
ness of  an  upright  soul  ;  he  gave  it  the  value  of  his 
perfect  sanction,  and,  wherever  the  Gospel  shall  be 
preached,  it  shall  be  known  for  a  memorial  and  an 
example. 

The  memorial  is  familiar.  All  who  have  heard  or 
read  the  words  of  the  evangelical  story,  have  the 
widow  and  her  mite  among  the  most  vivid  of  their 
religious  thoughts.  The  lesson  which  the  example 
teaches  is  as  obvious  as  the  record  of  it  is  familiar. 
The  record  is  often  recited,  and  the  lesson  is  often  en- 
forced, yet  the  frequency  is  not  greater  than  'it  is 
needed.  It  is  for  our  constant  good  to  return  again 
and  again  to  the  examples  in  which  our  Saviour  em- 
bodies his  principles,  by  which  he  illustrates  his  teach- 
ings. They  are  never  exhausted,  and  there  is  no  time 
when  we  cannot  draw  from  them  instruction  and  re- 
freshment. Besides,  if  we  are  at  all  earnest  for  im- 
provement, we  require  them  for  light  and  for  guidance  ; 
we  require  them  for  security  and  correction.  There  is 
much  to  set  us  wrong  within  us ;  there  is  much  to  set 
us  wrong  outside.  Sophistry  gets  easily  into  our 
reasonings  when  we  seek  for  conclusions  favorable  to 
our  inclinations,  and  for  such  conclusions  we  are  often 
12 


178  EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS. 

on  the  search.  -  Our  motives  are  not  unfrequently  un- 
sound when  we  would  flatter  ourselves  that  they  are 
honest.  Our  vanities  and  passions  can  mask  them- 
selves in  infinite  disguises,  assume  those  which  our  self- 
love  would  have  them.  We  would  have  self-indulgence, 
yet  not  lose  self-respect ;  and,  to  make  the  compro- 
mise effectual,  we  compact  most  artificial  and  elaborate 
systems  of  self-deception.  The  world  in  which  we  live 
sustains  and  aids  us  in  this  bad  exertion.  Fashion, 
pretension,  expediency,  convention,  custom,  tradition, 
all  the  thousand  conspiracies  to  veil  the  hatefulness  of 
evil ;  to  obscure  the  true  nature  of  sin ;  to  evade  the 
solemn  injunctions  of  moral  obligation,  yet  escape 
dishonor  by  extended  participation  ;  to  put  aside  real- 
ity and  to  substitute  appearance ;  to  put  good  for  evil, 
and  evil  for  good  ;  —  all  these  tendencies  fall  in  with  the 
predispositions  of  our  own  hearts,  and  our  own  hearts 
are  fatally  ready  to  make  alliance  with  them.  But  the 
subterfuges  are  shamed  by  the  teaching  of  Christ,  and 
like  the  demons  of  old,  if  not  always  cast  out,  they  are 
rebuked  to  silence  in  his  presence.  When,  however, 
we  sincerely  look  for  wisdom,  he  is  always  near  to  us 
in  his  word,  and  with  that  we  can  cut  asunder  the  most 
knotted  web-work  which  sophistry  evej  put  together. 

The  principle  in  the  example  before  us,  as  in  all  the 
evangelical  illustrations,  is  manifest ;  in  each,  the  nar- 


EVANGELICAL    GOODNESS. 

rative  at  once  reveals  the  thought  contained  in  it.  In 
this,  the  idea  obviously  is,  that  genuine  goodness  is  in 
the  inward  soul,  and  not  in  the  outward  action  ;  that 
the  intention  gives  value  to  the  deed  ;  that  the  measure 
of  excellence  is  not  the  amount  of  the  gift,  but  the 
amount  of  purity  in  giving,  and  the  amount  of  sacrifice 
that  is  made  to  give.  One  may  give  much  and  it  may 
cost  him  little  ;  another  may  give  little,  and  it  may  cost 
him  all. 

On  the  abstract  principle  I  will  say  no  more  ;  genu- 
ine goodness  belongs  to  the  soul,  and  action  is  of  merit 
in  the  agent,  is  a  portion  of  noble  character,  only  as  it 
is  the  fruit  of  rectitude  within.  I  will  point  out  a  few 
characteristics  of  evangelical  goodness. 

Evangelical  goodness  is  unostentatious.  How  pure 
and  beautiful  is  the  goodness  of  this  widow  in  Israel. 
We  can  almost  paint  her  to  our  fancies,  as  she  shrinks 
stealthily  through  the  crowd,  to  cast  her  unnoticed  mite 
into  the  treasury  of  her  country  and  her  God  ;  then 
drawing  aside  the  veil  which  shrouds  the  eternal  world, 
we  behold  this  lowly  child  of  earth  honored  of  that 
equal  Father  by  whom  goodness  in  the  most  secret 
thought  is  loved,  and  in  the  smallest  deed  rewarded. 
Our  Lord  constantly  insists  on  this  quality  of  the  worth 
that  gains  acceptance  at  the  supreme  tribunal.  "  When 
ye  fast,"  he  says,  "  be  not  of  a  sad  countenance,  that 


180  EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS. 

ye  appear  not  unto  men  to  fast.  When  you  pray,  enter 
into  your  closet,  shut  the  door,  and  pray  to  your  Father, 
who  seeth  in  secret.  When  you  give  alms,  do  not 
sound  the  trumpet  before  you,  as  the  hypocrites  do." 
This  surely  does  not  preclude  from  moral  excellence 
every  open  manifestation  ;  for  such  would  not  be  pos- 
sible without  destroying,  at  the  same  time,  a  great  mass 
of  the  virtue  which  adorns  human  character,  and  which 
blesses  the  world.  Our  Lord  would  not  surely  forbid 
all  public  humiliation,  or  any  fasting,  but  that  which 
God  alone  should  know.  He  would  not  surely  forbid 
all  social  prayer,  and  all  common  worship.  He  would 
not  surely  forbid  all  demonstrative  benevolence,  all 
associative  charities.  Doctrine  to  this  effect  would  not 
only  reduce  human  beings  to  isolated  individuals,  and 
leave  no  place  for  the  existence  of  example,  —  it  would 
contradict  other  teachings  of  our  Lord  himself;  for  he 
says,  "  Let  your  light  so  shine  before  men  that  they 
may  see  your  good  works,  and  glorify  your  Father  who 
is  in  heaven."  Such  a  doctrine  would  have  deprived 
the  world  of  his  own  example  ;  for  were  nothing  perfect 
but  what  is  secret,  then  he  had  in  his  holiness  remained 
invisible  forever.  Such  a  doctrine  is,  then,  contradictory 
not  only  to  his  teaching,  —  it  is  equally  contradictory  to 
his  practice.  He  fasted  with  the  knowledge  of  his 
disciples.  He  prayed  in  their  presence.  He  attended 


EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS.  181 

worship  in  the  synagogues,  and  in  the  temple.  And 
with  multitudes  for  witnesses  he  performed  miracles  of 
beneficence. 

It  is  to  the  spirit  of  a  character  that  our  Lord's  remarks 
apply.  The  character  that  he  loved  was  one  that  had 
vitality  which  was  not  nourished  from  without,  but 
which  had  the  supply  of  its  power  from  within  ;  which 
adhered  to  the  just  or  the  good,  simply  because  it  was 
just  or  good ;  which  shunned  publicity,  whenever  pub- 
licity could  be  avoided  or  was  needless ;  which,  having 
joy  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  cared  not  for  the  praise  of 
men,  and,  indifferent  to  their  neglect,  could  even  bear 
with  their  contempt.  Our  Lord  would  drive  no  man  to 
a  solitary  asceticism,  which  has  often  more  of  ostenta- 
tion than  all  the  vanities  of  life.  On  the  contrary,  he 
required  of  his  most  immediate  disciples  to  go  forth 
fearlessly  into  throngs ;  to  enter  boldly  into  the  cities  of 
Israel  and  the  gentiles ;  yet  did  he  rebuke  down  every 
impulse  that  seemed  officious  or  obtrusive.  He  him- 
self toiled  openly  on  the  highways  and  in  the  market- 
places, nor  did  he  refuse  to  be  a  guest  with  rulers  and 
the  wealthy  ;  but  those  to  whom  he  most  frequently 
resorted,  those  with  whom  he  held  most  intimate  and 
most  friendly  communion,  were  a  quiet  family  in 
Bethany,  embosomed  in  the  sacredness  of  noiseless 
virtue. 


182  EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS. 

We  cannot  always  calculate  the  influence  of  others 
upon  us  ;  and  without  any  positive  insincerity,  much 
that  we  do  and  say,  much  that  we  leave  undone  and 
unsaid,  is  attributable  to  such  influence.  Evils  may  be 
in  our  conduct,  and  go  on  unchecked,  so  long  as  they 
do  not  disturb  the  system  in  which  we  live,  so  long  as 
they  provoke  no  censure  from  those  who  form  the 
circle  in  which  we  move.  We  try  them  by  no  moral 
standard  that  is  independent  on  conventional  opinions ; 
and  until  we  perceive  their  deformity  revealed  by  the 
avoidance  or  the  frowns  of  society,  we  scarcely  know 
them  to  be  evils.  In  like  manner,  we  perform  actions 
of  seeming  virtue,  without  discovering,  for  a  time,  how 
much  of  the  virtue  is  no  more  than  seeming.  We 
have  no  purpose  to  deceive,  and  yet,  unconsciously, 
many  of  our  actions  have  being  because  a  multitude  of 
witnesses  behold  them.  These  actions  would  not  have 
being  if  witnesses  were  not ;  but  of  this  fact  we  would 
ourselves  be  ignorant.  It  is  thus  that  others  become 
to  us  sometimes  a  conscience,  and  sometimes  a  de- 
lusion ;  but  more  frequently  a  delusion  than  a  con- 
science. 

There  are  actions,  to  be  sure,  of  singleness  and 
worth,  that  cannot  escape  from  the  world's  applause, 
and  to  which  the  applause  that  the  world  gives  is  true, 
heart-felt,  and  permanent.  But  the  souls,  to  whom 


EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS.  183 

such  actions  are  native,  wonder  at  the  praise  which 
comes  to  them,  and  they  are  mortified  by  the  notoriety 
that  follows.  If  they  have  risked  their  lives,  and  been 
the  means  of  saving  others,  —  if,  in  severe  distress,  they 
have  shared  a  small  relief  with  some  whose  situation 
was  worse  than  theirs  and  had  no  relief  whatever, —  they 
are  surprised  and  humbled  to  find  that  deeds  so  natural 
should  have  praise  so  exaggerated.  The  exaggeration 
springs  from  this,  that  human  nature  cannot  help 
admiring  generosity,  and  but  few  men  are  really  gen- 
erous. When,  however,  the  actions  have  all  the  marks 
of  a  genuine  heroism,  we  can  pardon  the  exaggeration, 
and  we  can  regard  with  leniency  the  contrast  between 
men's  actual  deeds  and  the  ideal  of  their  nature  out  of 
which  the  exaggeration  comes. 

But  there  are  other  forms  of  it,  which  are  not  to  be 
so  regarded,  because  they  evince  a  low  standard  of 
action,  and  tend  to  keep  it  low,  if  not  to  render  it  lower. 
Take  one  or  two  familiar  cases.  A  man  of  station, 
president  or  prince,  listens  patiently  to  a  story  of  dis- 
tress, and  perhaps  bestows  a  kindness  on  the  teller  of 
it ;  possibly,  in  his  walks,  he  discovers  a  beggar  that 
has  fainted  on  the  way,  and  he  helps  him  to  arise,  and 
supports  him  to  a  shelter ;  —  actions,  charitable,  it  is 
admitted,  but  extremely  simple,  and  which,  if  done  by 
a  plain  private  man,  would  arouse  no  special  common- 


184  EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS. 

dation  in  the  smallest  village  ;  but  as  it  was  a  prince  or 
president  that  did  it,  Panegyric  puffs  at  the  trumpet  of 
fame  almost  to  suffocation,  to  let  the  world  be  aware  of 
what  prince  and  president  can  do  to  prove  that  they 
belong  to  the  family  of  men.  Now,  in  the  circum- 
stances, what  else  could  prince  or  president  have  done  ? 
Could  he,  if  he  had  a  heart,  have  stifled  the  words  of 
the  unfortunate,  or  have  left  a  fellow-creature  without 
aid  to  perish  ?  What  did  he  more  than  others  ?  And 
to  say,  that  without  infamy  he  might  have  done  less, 
would  be  to  hold  forth  a  wretched  view  of  the  character 
of  the  individual,  or  of  the  influence  of  his  position ;  it 
would  be  to  libel  humanity,  or  to  malign  the  man. 

Again  :  a  person,  worth  hundreds  of  thousands,  dis- 
penses a  portion  of  it  in  public  improvement  and  gen- 
eral charities.  He  bestows  five  thousand  upon  one 
object,  ten  thousand  upon  another ;  and  he  does  this 
more  than  once.  If  he  be  really  a  good  man,  he  does 
venture  on  a  martyrdom  ;  for  I  can  hardly  think  of  a 
severer  persecution  to  be  endured  by  a  modest  and  hu- 
mane nature,  than  to  have  his  name  emblazoned  in  the 
journals  as  his  will  be.  If  he  has  chosen  wisely,  he 
has  acted  well ;  but  he  intended  good,  at  any  rate,  and 
intention  in  such  case  is  virtue.  "  But  what,"  he  asks 
himself,  "  ought  I  to  have  done  ?  If  many  rich  men 
would  not  have  done  so,  it  does  not  exalt  my  virtue ;  it 


EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS.  185 

merely  exhibits  their  sordidness ;  it  shows  to  what  an 
extent  mean  ideas  prevail  upon  the  purposes  and  use 
of  wealth.  What  can  I  do  with  my  wealth  but  dis- 
tribute it  ?  This  will  be  done,  whether  I  do  it  or  not ; 
and,  it  is  likely,  to  worse  ends.  I  ought  not  to  leave  it 
all  to  my  family  ;  I  would  not  spend  it  all  on  myself, 
and  I  could  not  if  I  would.  My  possessions  abound  and 
overflow  beyond  every  desire,  not  merely  of  need,  but 
of  luxury  ;  what  is  more  simple,  more  easy,  what  less 
a  sacrifice,  and  more  a  gratification,  than  to  benefit  my 
generation  out  of  these  ample  stores  ? " 

"  What,"  said  a  plain  man,  of  no  wonderful  fortune, 
who  had  given  a  thousand  pounds  to  a  single  charity 
school,  —  and  this  was  but  one  gift  out  of  many  to  such 
purposes,  — "  what,"  said  he,  at  a  public  meeting 
where  he  had  to  bear  a  martyrdom  of  eulogy,  "  what 
have  I  done,  but  given  a  pound  apiece  to  a  thousand 
poor  children  ? "  Little  did  he  understand  of  oratory  ; 
but  a  true  elevation  of  soul,  an  honest  simplicity  of 
heart,  made  him  sublimely  eloquent.  But,  though  it  is 
mortifying  to  our  nature,  we  must  confess,  that  the 
world's  fulsome  praise  is  the  expected  exchange  for 
many  a  largess.  Appeals  are  constantly  made  not  only 
to  men's  vanity,  but  even  to  their  senses,  —  ay,  and  to 
their  appetites  ;  their  subscriptions  are  won  from  them 
by  the  paragraph  in  the  newspaper,  or  by  the  gaud 


186  EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS. 

of  the  showy  fair,  or  by  the  viands  of  the-  luxurious 
feast. 

Was  it  to  teach  us  virtue  in  its  own  sweet  beauty, 
that  our  Lord  shows  it  to  us  ever  in  situations  where  we 
cannot  suspect  it  to  be  under  the  dominion  of  influences 
such  as  these  ?  Was  it  to  show  it  to  us  delivered  from 
all  delusive  associations,  from  all  connection  with  mo- 
tives of  interest  or  fascinations  of  the  senses,  that  he 
places  it  invariably  before  us  in  positions  unnoticed  and 
obscure  ?  Our  Lord,  in  his  teachings,  did  not  adduce 
what  we  call  illustrious  examples.  The  models  of  ex- 
cellence which  he  selects  are  never  distinguished  by 
any  outward  celebrity.  It  was  not  such  that  mankind 
needed,  nor  was  it  such  that  our  Saviour  could  have 
used.  Striking  and  brilliant  characters  are  abundant 
in  all  the  histories  of  earth.  It  was  his  mission  to  teach 
us  that  characters  might  have  a  nobler  elevation  than 
these,  and  yet  be  neither  striking  nor  brilliant.  We 
required  to  be  instructed  in  the  holy  as  well  as  the 
heroic  ;  in  the  devoted  sense  of  right  which  can  be 
magnanimous  without  fame,  —  which  may  shine  on  the 
lowly  paths  of  life  even  more  brightly  than  on  its  high- 
ways, —  which  may  be  as  exalted  in  the  closet-prayer, 
or  in  the  secret  alms,  as  in  the  hour  of  martyrdom. 

And  this  is  the  instruction  which  he  has  given  us  in 
every  mode  by  which  the  soul  can  be  reached ;  —  by  pre- 


EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS.  187 

cept,  by  example,  by  allegory,  and  by  fact.  When  we 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  these  instructions,  we  learn  how 
little  we  know  of  life  when  we  see  it  only  in  its  outside 
appearance.  What  can  we  know  of  the  mystery  of 
lives  that  pass  around  us  ?  What  can  we  know  of  the 
unexplored,  unspoken,  and  unspeakable  things  which 
lie  deep  in  the  secrecies  of  these  immortal  beings  ? 
We  know  little  of  their  evil,  and  less  still  of  their  good- 
ness. The  most  eloquent  language  in  which  truest 
admiration  ever  spoke  its  sense  of  a  blessed  and  benig- 
nant man,  is  infantile  stammering  to  those  who  lived  in 
the  sunshine  of  his  presence  ;  yet,  even  to  them,  there 
were  mysteries  of  inward  holiness  to  which  they  had 
never  pierced.  We  see  not  all  of  moral  beauty  in  its 
external  and  accidental  attributes.  Its  purest  loveli- 
ness is  not  often  where  the  many  would  be  allowed  to 
gaze,  or  where  they  would  be  fit  to  judge.  We  catch 
but  glimpses  of  the  best  life  ;  we  see  it  only  in  a  few 
prominent  aspects,  as  we  behold  not  all  of  God's  boun- 
tiful earth  in  its  peopled  spaces.  There  are  wonders 
of  God  upon  the  earth  in  yet  unbroken  loneliness  ; 
things  which  the  eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  the  ear  heard, 
lavished  in  the  very  profusion  of  unbounded  power,  in 
the  exhaustless  abundance  and  wealth  of  omnipotence. 
There  are  floods  of  sunshine  flung  over  the  broad 
sweep  of  untrodden  deserts  ;  gorgeous  foliage  and  eter- 


188  EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS. 

nal  bloom  clothing  the  wilderness  of  virgin  woods. 
There  are  rivers  that  wander  over  voiceless  regions  ; 
there  are  beautiful,  but  unnoted  shores,  washed  only  by 
the  ocean  wave,  cheered  only  by  the  music  of  the 
storm.  There  are  spots  of  Paradise  lovely  in  their  soli- 
tude, which  the  day-beams  and  the  moon-light  alone 
look  upon.  There  are  unprofaned  cataracts,  by  which 
Nature,  in  her  deep  retreats,  hymns  forever  her  an- 
thems of  lonely  praise.  And  so  it  is  with  the  good 
man's  soul :  it  has  glory  in  its  secret  places  ;  it  has  joy 
in  its  hidden  depths  ;  it  has  light  where  no  man  in- 
trudes ;  it  has  peace  which  passeth  understanding  and 
passeth  utterance  ;  it  has  majesty  and  bliss,  where  only 
its  own  thought  with  the  spirit  of  its  God  reposes. 

Evangelical  goodness  is  self- forgetful  and  self-deny- 
ing. It  does  not  render  the  individual  a  centre,  drawing 
to  himself  advantages  from  all  around  ;  but  rather  a 
centre  from  which  advantages  to  others  emanate  and 
flow.  The  ruling  sentiment  in  a  loving  and  a  godly 
heart  is  to  increase  the  sum  of  pure  enjoyment  in  the 
world,  to  diminish  the  quantity  of  pain  there  ;  to  add 
force  to  the  efforts  of  virtue,  and  to  weaken  the  power 
of  sin ;  to  do  this  without  thinking  aught  of  its  own 
indulgence,  and  to  do  it  even  at  the  cost  of  much  endur- 
ance and  much  opposition.  This  is  more  than  ami- 
able instinct.  It  is  more  than  the  instinct  of  affection  ; 


EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS.  189 

it  is  more  than  to  reverence  our  parents  or  to  cherish 
our  offspring.  It  is  more  than  the  instinct  of  gratitude  ; 
it  is  more  than  to  aid  those  who  have  aided  us,  and  to 
bless  those  who  love  us.  It  is  to  work  for  a  stranger ; 
it  is  to  suffer  for  an  enemy.  The  goodness  which 
proves  the  endeavor  for  a  high  moral  and  spiritual  life, 
is  more  than  prudence.  It  is  more  than  general  pro- 
priety of  conduct,  modesty  of  speech,  honesty  of  dealing, 
and  temperance  of  habits.  Inward  rectitude  will,  of 
course,  issue  in  these,  but  will  not  stop  in  them. 
Worldly  wisdom,  even  outward  necessity,  will  compel 
men  thus  far,  or  crush  them  if  they  refuse  to  move. 
Nor  does  character  evince  any  purer  tone,  if  it  is  mere- 
ly acted  on  by  the  hope  of  future  happiness  and  the 
fear  of  future  misery  ;  for  it  is  only  carrying  the  selfish 
hopes  and  fears  of  this  world  to  another.  Up  to  this 
point,  then,  we  stand  on  no  elevated  height  in  the  region 
of  virtue,  if  we  even  can  be  said  to  have  entered  it. 

Suppose  a  life,  and  let  it  be  above  the  average  ;  take 
away  from  it  the  kindness  which  belongs  to  its  natural 
affections,  the  amenities  that  pertain  to  friendship,  the 
benefits  which  it  has  conferred  from  gratitude  or  expec- 
tation ;  take  away  from  it  the  order  which  social  re- 
straint or  social  obligation  has  enforced.  Leave  with  it 
its  adherence,  in  every  other  respect,  to  personal  incli- 
nation, its  devotion  to  individual  passions,  its  vio- 


EVANGELICAL    GOODNESS. 

lations  of  charity,  without  remorse,  both  in  temper  and 
in  speech  ;  leave  with  it  its  concealments  and  emu- 
lations, its  excuses  and  its  subterfuges ;  leave  with  it 
Hs  indifference  to  the  great  concerns  of  humanity,- and 
jts  quick  sensibility  to  the  little  concerns  of  itself; 
leave  with  it  its  apathy  to  enormous  wrong  which 
does  not  press  too  nearly,  its  more  than  tolerance  if  it 
promises  or  gives  emolument ;  leave  with  it  the  sophis- 
try with  which  it  can  obscure  an  everlasting  truth,  and 
the  loo-ic  with  which  it  can  sustain  to  itself  an  everlast- 

D 

ing  lie,  when  the  truth  calls  for  sacrifice  and  the  lie  is 
favorable  to  indulgence  ;  in  short,  give  it  credit  for  the 
tithe  of  mint,  anise,  and  cummin,  but  charge  on  it 
neglect  in  the  weightier  matters  of  the  law,  judgment, 
mercy,  and  faith :  what  portion  of  it  remains  to  be 
esteemed  as  genuine,  as  Christian  virtue  ?  No,  this  is 
more  than  instinct,  than  prudence,  than  propriety  ;  it  is 
the  practice  of  excellence  in  its  changeless  right ;  it  is 
the  love  of  it  in  its  eternal  fairness.  To  this  belongs 
an  integrity  which  is  higher  than  the  world,  and  which 
nothing  in  the  world  can  move  ;  an  integrity  which 
fears  only  to  sin,  to  which  all  things  spiritually  great 
are  possible  ;  for  with  such  integrity  there  is  ever  con 
nected  a  mighty  zeal,  —  a  zeal  which  keeps  alive  that 
holy  fire  in  the  soul,  which  inflames  but  does  not  con- 
sume, —  the  zeal  which  makes  enthusiasm  god-like, 


EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS.  191 

which  endows  the  will  with  a  moral  omnipotence, 
which  clothes  the  spirit  with  glory  and  arms  the  tongue 
with  lightning. 

Christian  goodness  is  not  only  a  spirit  of  purity  ;  it  is 
also  a  spirit  of  sacrifice.  And  to  exercise  the  spirit  of 
sacrifice  in  its  utmost  devotion,  we  need  not  the  trials 
of  fiery  persecution.  Life  does  not  permit  that  such 
can  be  frequent,  and  even  in  the  fiercest  times  such 
can  be  only  transient  and  rapid.  The  opportunity  is 
rare,  which  concentrates  the  sanctity  of  a  whole 
nature  in  a  single  resolve  ;  but  the  opportunities  are 
always,  when  a  sanctity  as  pure  can  leaven  the  entire 
life,  and  be  the  principle  that  animates  its  every  action. 
For  the  existence  or  energy  of  such  a  spirit,  the  torture 
or  the  stake  is  no  essential.  We  are  not  called  to 
answer  for  our  faith  before  magistrates.  We  are  not 
appointed  to  make  confession  in  the  flames.  We  are 
ordained  to  duties  which  meet  us  every  day,  which 
with  every  day  impose  on  us  self-denial,  in  which  every 
day  we  may  consecrate  endurance  by  tempers  both 
heavenly  and  heroic.  We  have  bereavements  that 
sadden  us  ;  we  have  vexations  that  provoke  us  ;  we 
have  labors  that  oppress,  and  watchings  that  fatigue  ; 
we  have  losses  and  griefs  which  it  requires  believing 
hearts  to  support.  Now,  we  may  bear  all  these  meek- 
ly, and  that  is  to  bear  them  nobly,  to  perfect  the  die- 


192  EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS. 

tates  of  celestial  wisdom  in  the  strength  of  a  sublime 
patience.  This  may  be  without  conspicuous  position 
and  without  emblazoned  story.  The  daily  sacrifices  of 
a  laboring  man  to  duty  may  involve  more  bravery  of 
soul  than  the  achievements  of  patriots  and  heroes  ;  and 
the  devotion  of  an  unlettered  girl,  comforting  through 
years  the  bed-ridden  winter  of  a  parent's  age,  may 
contain  a  holier  martyrdom  than  any  which  the  church 
has  canonized  and  glorified.  The  spirit  of  sacrifice  is 
preeminently  the  spirit  of  Christ;  it  is  the  spirit  which 
was  perfect  on  the  cross,  and  which  gave  the  cross  its 
triumph. 

Evangelical  goodness  is  elevated,  broad,  generous, 
liberal.  The  widow  devoted  her  offering  to  the  temple, 
and  the  temple  was  the  outward  symbol  to  her  of  her 
God  and  of  her  brethren.  The  widow  found  the 
embodiment  of  her  holiest  ideas  in  the  temple  of 
Jerusalem.  But  the  Christian  finds  the  incarnation 
of  his  in  the  living  heart  of  Jesus ;  that  heart  which 
felt  for  all  that  struggled  in  the  flesh,  yet  breathed 
itself  in  the  invisible  and  the  infinite  ;  that  heart  which 
was  perfect  in  its  love,  which  went  up  without  a  stain 
to  the  Father  in  heaven,  and  went  out  without  a  limit 
to  all  his  children  upon  earth  ;  that  heart  which  adored 
the  Creator  in  all  the  compass  of  his  attributes,  and 
sympathized  with  man  in  all  the  extent  of  his  wants. 


EVANGELICAL    GOODNESS.  193 

While  the  widow  presented  her  offering  to  the  temple 
of  Jerusalem,  there  was  planned  a  greater  temple,  of 
which  she  did  not  know.  It  was  even  then  being 
founded ;  ample  were  to  be  its  mansions  and  beautiful 
its  courts,  Jesus  to  be  its  priest,  and  all  nations  its 
worshippers.  In  the  death-sigh  that  tore  the  sacred 
breast  of  Jesus,  the  partition  walls  of  a  thousand 
divisions  were  overturned  ;  to  the  tribes  of  every 
tongue  and  clime  and  color,  a  common  kindred  was 
proclaimed  ;  and  that  veil  which  was  rent  asunder  in 
the  old  temple  was  never  to  be  restored  in  the  new. 

This  new  temple  is  spiritual,  a  building  not  made 
with  hands,  dedicated  to  the  highest  glory  of  God,  for 
the  best  happiness  of  man.  To  this  temple  we  are 
called  to  contribute,  and  each  of  us  may  give  his 
portion  ;  one  of  his  abundance,  another  of  his  poverty, 
and  yet  each  be  the  richer  for  what  he  gives.  Here  is 
space  enough  for  every  talent  and  every  effort.  Much 
is  to  be  done,  and  all  may  be  done  in  peace.  The 
first  temple  was  erected  without  sound  of  hammer  or 
use  of  iron  instrument ;  still  more  must  this  later  and 
holier  be  raised  without  the  sounds  of  unrighteous  strife 
and  of  carnal  warfare.  The  materials  of  the  first 
temple  were  made  ready  in  solitude.  Those  of  the 
last  also  must  be  shaped  in  retirement ;  in  the  silence 
of  the  heart ;  in  the  quietness  of  home  ;  in  the  practice 
13 


194  EVANGELICAL  GOODNESS. 

of  unostentatious  duty.  And  there  is  not  a  single  act 
of  goodness,  nor  a  pure  desire,  nor  a  sincere  aspiration 
after  truth  ;  not  a  soul  enlightened  by  religion,  not  an 
intellect  delivered  from  ignorance ;  not  a  bosom  cleared 
of  passion  ;  not  a  conscience  strengthened  against  sin, 
—  in  which  a  stone  is  not  polished  or  a  gem  brightened 
for  this  most  sacred  structure.  In  this  good  work  all 
is  harmony  ;  nothing  of  right  endeavor  is  useless,  and 
nothing  of  the  humblest  work  is  lost.  The  teacher 
that  enlightens  an  infant  contributes  to  it  as  well  as  the 
prophet  that  instructs  a  world  ;  and  both  are  fellow- 
workers  with  Christ,  both  are  fellow-workers  with  God. 
In  this  good  work  all  degrees  and  all  modes  of  gener- 
ous action  are  united  ;  and  whatever  differences  may 
otherwise  separate  the  agents,  in  this  they  have  un- 
broken and  sublime  communion,  —  in  this  they  are 
gloriously  joined  together  in  the  holy  alliance  of 
human  brotherhood,  in  the  sacred  compact  of  universal 
virtue. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS. 


LUKE  vi.  37. 

FORGIVE,    AND    YE   SHALL    BE    FORGIVEN. 

MY  object  in  this  discourse  is  tq  make  some  general 
remarks  on  the  spirit  of  mutual  forgiveness,  as  incul- 
cated in  the  religion  of  Christ. 

But,  before  entering  directly  on  my  subject,  I  wish 
to  state  a  few  preliminary  reflections.  And,  first,  as 
to  the  nature  of  the  doctrine.  It  is  not  one,  evidently, 
of  untaught  instinct.  We  scarcely  ever  hear  of  it  in 
the  savage,  with  whom  it  is  equally  a  duty  to  inflict 
vengeance  without  mercy,  and  a  glory  to  bear  it  with- 
out complaint.  Neither  is  it  one  of  imperfect  condi- 
tions of  society,  or  of  incomplete  revelation.  It  was 
not  a  part  of  heathen  teaching,  nor  is  it  conspicuous  in 
the  Jewish  Scriptures.  It  was  but  little  heard  in  the 
Gentile  schools ;  and  whatever  had  been  originally 
intended  by  the  Jewish  Legislator,  in  the  maxim  "  Aa 
eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,"  it  is  suffi- 
ciently evident,  that  the  maxim  was  afterwards  so  used 


196  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS. 

as  to  justify  the  most  vindictive  malice.  The  doctrine 
of  forgiveness,  in  its  full  breadth  and  beauty,  is  of 
Christ  and  of  Christianity.  Christianity  founds  it  on 
that  most  affectionate  of  all  relations,  the  relation  that 
subsists  between  children  and  a  parent ;  and  such  is  the 
relation  which  it  reveals  as  between  humanity  and 
God.  We  are  his  weak  and  feeble  offspring ;  if  we 
turn  towards  him,  he  is  ever  ready  to  look  upon  us  with 
mercy  and  compassion  ;  he  knoweth  that  we  are  but 
dust,  and  he  pitieth  us,  even  as  a  father  pitieth  his 
children.  And  thus  benignly  lovely  in  its  principle, 
it  is  no  less  lovely  in  its  example.  Christ  it  was  who 
taught  it ;  and  with  what  sweet  and  varied  eloquence 
did  he  teach  it !  Read  the  precepts  in  which  he  com- 
mands it ;  the  motives  by  which  he  urges  it ;  the  sanc- 
tions by  which  he  enforces  it ;  the  stories  and  the  para- 
bles by  which  he  illustrates  it ;  and,  if  these  do  not 
show  you  how  divinely  fair  it  is,  you  have  no  sympathy 
with  the  soul  of  moral  beauty.  Yet  this  word,  sub- 
limely as  it  was  uttered,  was  only  the  breathing  of  a 
life,  which  was  the  substance  and  the  perfection  of  that 
sentiment  which  the  word  contained. 

Secondly,  as  to  the  limits  of  the  doctrine.  Although  it 
refers  to  evil  done  by  others  against  us,  —  evil  which 
wounds  our  feelings  or  our  interests,  —  it  does  not  re- 
quire us  to  see  even  that  evil  otherwise  than  it  is ;  for, 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS.  197 

if  it  did,  it  would  do  us  the  deepest  injury  :  it  would 
require  of  us  to  blind  both  our  intellect  and  con- 
science ;  and  worse  1  than  this  no  enemy  could  inflict 
upon  us.  It  tasks  us  with  no  such  impossibility ;  it 
would  have  us  look  at  sin  exactly  as  it  is,  if  so  we 
can  apprehend  it ;  and  it  would  mitigate  no  righteous 
judgment  which,  in  justice,  we  can  pronounce  against 
it.  Still  it  would  shield  from  our  hatred  the  person  of 
the  sinner.  Nor  does  it  exact  indifference  to  the  evils 
which  are  done  us,  or  affection  to  those  who  do  them  ; 
it  would  simply  repress  feelings  of  vindictiveness,  and 
control  the  will  against  movements  and  actions  of 
enmity.  We  are  called  on  to  discourage  those  irritat- 
ing feelings,  not  to  add  to  them  or  excite  them ;  not 
to  inflame  wrong  by  dwelling  on  it ;  and  not  to  make 
our  own  tempers  the  advocates  of  our  own  cause. 
Who,  more  than  Christ,  ever  abhorred  sin  ?  who  more 
alive  to  its  iniquity?  who  more  sublimely,  more  ter- 
ribly uncompromising  in  denouncing  it  ?  yet  who,  at 
the  same  time,  more  gentle,  more  merciful  ?  Who 
more  keen,  more  sensitive,  more  delicate  than  he  in 
his  feelings,  and  whoever  had  his  feelings  so  grossly 
wounded  ?  Yet  was  there  no  shadow  of  return  or  re- 
venge !  Indeed,  there  is  something  to  me  fearful  in 
the  manner  in  which  a  good  man  deals  with  sin  and 
sinners.  From  angry  rebuke  I  would  not  shrink  ;  vio- 


108  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS. 

lent  denunciation  I  should  not  value  ;  but  the  calm 
decision  of  a  holy  and  gentle  mind,  unmovedby  tem- 
per or  by  self,  is  to  me  the  most  awful  thing  in  the 
universe,  except  the  disapprobation  of  the  all-seeing 
Creator  himself.  There  was,  therefore,  neither  weak- 
ness nor  blindness  in  the  doctrine  of  forgiveness  as 
Christ  taught  and  as  Christ  practised  it. 

And,  thirdly,  a  word  as  to  the  reason  why  this  noble 
doctrine  has  not  more  effect  among  professing  Chris- 
tians. A  strong  reason,  no  doubt,  can  be  found  in  our 
individual  and  our  emulative  desires  ;  but  another — and 
it  is  the  only  one  which  I  will  glance  at  —  exists  in  the 
powers  which  social  prejudices  have  upon  us.  As 
these  prejudices  spring  out  of  the  individual  nature,  so 
they  react  back  again  upon  it,  and  increase  the  evils 
in  it  from  which  they  spring.  One  of  the  most  obsti- 
nate of  these  prejudices  is  the  glory  which  has  as  yet 
been  associated  with  physical  combat.  Success,  vic- 
tory, overpowers  the  imagination  of  the  mass ;  and  as 
the  imagination  of  the  mass  is  mainly  acted  on  through 
the  senses,  the  victory  which  most  affects  them  is  vic- 
tory obtained  in  external  strife.  Our  religion  was  ush- 
ered in  by  songs  of  angels,  and  these  songs  were  of 
peace  ;  and  yet  never,  since  earth  drank  the  first  human 
blood,  have  there  been  fiercer  warriors  than  the  pro- 
fessors of  this  religion.  Our  religion  was  incarnate  in 


^       THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS.  199 

one  whose  voice  \vas  not  heard  in  the  streets  ;  but  never 
have  yells  of  slaughter  more  wrathfully  torn  the  sky 
than  the  yells  which  those  who  call  themselves  by  his 
name  have  shouted  or  provoked.  The  banner  of  our 
faith  is  the  symbol  of  endurance  ;  and  the  last  words  of 
Him  who  died  upon  this  cross,  in  which  we -profess  to 
glory,  were  words  of  pardon  ;  but  that  kind  of  spirit  is 
one  which  most  Christians  since  would  not  have  hon- 
ored, but  scorned.  Christ  expired  in  a  space  which 
was  "  called  the  field  of  blood,"  and  his  followers  have 
made,  that  field  almost  as  broad  as  the  earth ;  more 
earnestly  have  they  imbibed  the  passions  of  the  Roman 
soldiers  than  the  meek  spirit  of  the  crucified,  who 
hung  in  agony  amidst  their  lances.  While  these  incon- 
gruities exist  in  our  religious  sentiment,  it  is  not  likely 
that  our  individual  or  social  morality  can  be  very  har- 
monious or  consistent.  Yet,  however  we  may  fail  in 
practice,  it  is  well  at  least  not  to  lower  the  standard 
of  our  duty  ;  and  this  of  forgiveness  is  not  the  less 
excellent  or  the  less  obligatory,  because  all  and  each 
of  us  constantly  transgress  it. 

I.  I  will  proceed  now  to  notice  some  qualities  which 
distinguish  the  spirit  of  Christian  forgiveness. 

1.  It  is  comprehensive.  It  teaches  us  to  see  a 
brother  even  in  our  enemy  ;  for  our  enemy  is  a  man  ; 
and  though  he  excludes  us  from  his  benevolent  re- 


200  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS 

gards,  it  is  not  for  us  to  exclude  him  from  ours.  En- 
mity does  not  justify  the  return  of  enmity.  Injury  is 
no  plea  for  injury.  To  return  passion  for  passion  is 
the  instinct  of  resistance  ;  to  return  good  for  good  is 
the  instinct  of  sympathy ;  and  though  the  latter  is  the 
impulse  of  complacency,  it  is  no  more  a  moral  princi- 
ple than  the  former  :  it  is  still  an  instinct.  To  be 
pleased  with  those  who  admire  us,  is  surely  not  an 
effort;  to  bear  with  the  incidental  inconsistencies  of 
those  who  permanently  esteem  us,  is  confessedly  no 
martyrdom.  "  If  you  salute  your  brethren  only,"  says 
our  Saviour,  "  what  do  ye  more  than  others  ?  But  I 
say  unto  you,  love  your  enemies ;  also,  do  good  to 
those  that  hate  you  ;  bless  those  that  curse  you,  and 
pray  for  those  that  calumniate  and  despitefully  use 
you."  The  spirit,  therefore,  of  Christian  forgiveness,  or 
even  Christian  forbearance,  is  something  superior  to 
the  instinct  of  sympathy,  and  it  is  yet  more  than  a 
triumph  over  the  instinct  of  resistance.  It  is  a  wise 
and  calm  benevolence,  founded  on  belief  in  God,  and 
on  brotherhood  with  man,  strengthened  by  our  love  to 
Christ ;  and,  thus  founded,  it  rests  upon  a  basis  which 
passion  cannot  shake,  and  rises  to  an  open  clearness  of 
elevation  which  prejudice  cannot  darken.  The  case 
.does  not  exist,  and  never  has  existed,  for  which  the 
gospel  allows  no  mercy ;  and  the  gospel  is  the  Chris- 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS.  201 

tian's  rule.  It  is  the  rule  we  acknowledge,  and  it  is  the 
rule  we  should  practise  ;  for  it  came  from  the  mind  of 
God,  and  was  made  living  in  the  heart  of  Christ. 

2.  The  spirit  of  Christian  forgiveness  is  inward  and 
simple.  It  is  "  from  the  heart "  that  Jesus  requires  that 
his  disciples  should  forgive  men  their  trespasses ;  and 
the  forgiveness  which  comes  not  from  the  heart  is  but 
a  mockery  and  a  name.  It  must  be  ample,  cordial, 
frank,  cheerful,  and  unreserved.  For  the  want  of  this 
simplicity,  many  reconciliations  are  but  outward,  and, 
therefore,  are  unsound.  Men  still  retain  corroding 
ideas,  jealousies,  and  want  of  confidence.  Littleness 
comes  in  contact  with  littleness.  A  small  passion  in 
one  has  strife  with  a  like  small  passion  in  another  ; 
vanity  with  vanity,  cunning  with  cunning,  covetousness 
with  covetousness,  ambition  with  ambition ;  and  the 
struggle  is  all  the  more  inveterate,  if  both  are  of  con- 
tracted minds.  Their  battle  is  on  the  earth  ;  their  hearts 
are  of  the  earth  ;  the  objects  which  they  strive  after 
belong  to  earth ;  but  the  fire  which  keeps  alive  the  con- 
test is  fire  from  hell. 

A  great  difficulty,  even  to  the  beginning  of  recon- 
ciliation, exists  in  pride.  It  often  happens  that  two 
persons,  who  greatly  esteem  each  other,  fall  out  con- 
cerning a  trifle.  Pride  holds  them  silent,  and  silence 
deepens  their  alienation,  until,  at  last,  two  minds,  which 


202  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS. 

had  once  been  linked  together  in  the  closest  regard, 
have  a  gulf  fixed  between  them,  dark,  fathomless,  and 
impassable.  It  sometimes  also  occurs,  that  one  arrives 
at  the  conviction  that  he  has  painfully  wounded  the 
feelings  of  another,  that  he  has  offended  him,  that  he 
has  done  him  injustice  ;  but  here  again  pride  closes  his 
mouth,  and,  sooner  than  make  a  candid  acknowledg- 
ment, he  is  content  to  endure  the  torture  of  a  sense  of 
guilt.  Or  it  may  be  that  he  fears  the  person  whom  he 
has  offended,  and  dares  not  venture  to  ask  him  for 
pardon,  lest  he  should  find  only  repulsion  and  refusal. 
O  the  supreme  excellence,  on  this  point,  that  appears  in 
the  character  of  Christ !  Was  there  ever  a  penitent 
who  dreaded  to  approach  him  ?  Is  it  that  the  pure 
only  can  afford  to  forgive  ?  Is  it  that  they  who  have 
evils  of  their  own  feel  called  on  to  evince  a  stronger 
detestation  against  the  infirmities  of  others  ?  Is  it  that 
they  consider  this  a  restitution  for  former  transgres- 
sions, and  a  peace-offering  to  insulted  virtue  ?  He  is 
either  a  very  pure  man,  or  a  very  blind  man,  whose 
conscience  has  nothing  wherewith  to  upbraid  him  ;  but, 
in  being  hasty  to  fling  the  first  stone  at  his  brother,  he 
would  give  more  evidence  of  blindness  than  of  purity. 
But  some  men  cannot  forgive  graciously.  They  would 
have  the  offender  stand  before  them  with  bare  feet  and 
with  uncovered  head,  until  they  had  exacted  the  utter- 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS.  203 

most  farthing  of  humiliation.  They  inflict  full  penance, 
and,  after  all,  give  but  half  an  absolution.  Thus  the  h'rst 
step  to  kindness  is  prevented  ;  for  most  men  would 
rather  be  hated  than  humiliated.  The  pardon  which 
blunts  the  sense  of  dignity  is  better  withheld  than  given, 
and  better  dispensed  with  than  sought  for.  Now,  my 
brethren,  granting  that  we  have  had  most  irritating 
cause  for  anger,  yet,  if  we  discover  that  the  object  of 
our  anger  grieves  most  sincerely  for  his  fault,  would 
deprecate  our  resentment  and  conciliate  our  peace,  if 
still  we  hold  sternly  to  our  severity,  our  feeling  is  then, 
not  anger,  but  malice, —  not  indignation,  but  revenge. 
We  are  then  the  farthest  possible  from  the  mind  of 
Christ ;  we  are  then  the  farthest  possible  from  the 
mind  of  God. 

Both  in  his  manner  of  teaching  forgiveness,  and  in 
his  manner  of  bestowing  it,  Christ  manifests  a  tender 
regard  for  the  rights  of  a  human  being ;  and  most  beau- 
tifully does  he  show  how  an  offender  may  be  pardoned 
without  being  degraded.  His  instruction  and  his  exam- 
ple impart  and  manifest  the  same  truth,  and  that  is,  the 
heavenly  excellence  of  a  generous  clemency.  There 
was  no  remonstrance  in  the  tones  of  that  father  who 
wept  on  the  neck  of  his  recovered  son ;  and  there  was 
no  sharpness  in  that  look  which  shot  conviction  to  the 
heart  of  Peter.  But  the  spirit  of  Christian  forgiveness 


U01  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS. 

rises  immeasurably  higher  than  this.  It  is  not  simply 
meek  to  repentance,  it  is  superior  to  provocation ;  it  is 
not  simply  placable  in  triumph,  it  is  merciful  in  agony ; 
it  has  not  merely  a  word  of  peace  for  the  suppliant,  it 
has  an  aspiration  of  hope  for  the  injurer.  When  ene- 
mies are  in  deplorable  need  of  help,  it  is  only  the  most 
mean  and  the  most  ungenerous  who  would  refuse  it. 
The  man,  for  example,  who,  with  power  to  aid  his  foe, 
would  leave  him  to  bleed  on  the  field,  —  or  who 
would  deny  him  bread  in  his  hunger,  or  drink  in  his 
thirst, —  who  would  insult  his  gray  hairs,  or  rejoice  over 
the  last  grave  of  his  posterity,  —  such  a  man  would  be 
execrated  and  despised  by  universal  sympathy.  And, 
should  he  do  entirely  the  opposite  to  all  this,  his  deeds 
would  be  considered  as  no  transcendent  virtue  ;  it  would 
be  only  what  all  men  of  ordinary  humanity  would  do  in 
such  circumstances. 

Though  a  man,  therefore,  should  raise  his  enemy 
from  the  place  of  his  fall,  and  heal  up  his  wounds,  — 
though  he  should  feed  and  refresh  him  in  his  want, — 
though  he  should  refuse  to  heap  odium  on  his  age, — 
though  he  should  pity  him  in  his  solitude  and  bereave- 
ment, —  he  would  not  yet  outstretch,  to  any  extent,  the 
limits  of  common  charities.  No,  my  friends,  the  trial 
is,  to  feel  benevolently  towards  a  prosperous  enemy  ; 
to  lament  his  malice,  even  while  we  suffer  from  it ;  to 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS.  205 

lament  that  his  soul,  in  causing  us  unjustly  to  suffer, 
should  do  itself  such  a  deadly  and  such  a  grievous  wrong. 
It  was  in  the  temper  of  such  mercy  that  Jesus  wept  over 
Jerusalem ;  it  was  in  this  temper  that  he  sent  the  prayer 
to  heaven  from  the  tortures  of  the  cross,  "  Father,  for- 
give them."  It  was  in  this  temper  that  Stephen's  de- 
parting soul  carried  up  the  intercession,  "  Lay  not  this 
sin  to  their  charge."  It  is  never  when  the  innocent  is 
successful,  but  when  he  is  defeated,  that  we  behold  the 
moral  grandeur  of  his  character.  It  is  not  when  he  has 
food,  and  drink,  and  clothing  to  bestow,  but  when  he  is 
himself  in  the  thirst  of  death,  or  when  he  is  cast  wretch- 
ed and  homeless  on  the  world,  that  we  behold  him  in 
the  fullness  of  his  worth.  It  is  then  that  the  strength  of 
duty  is  seen  to  rise  above  the  strength  of  instinct ;  that 
the  power  of  the  soul  is  seen  to  rise  above  the  power  of 
the  appetites  ;  and  that  the  spiritual  man  rules  supremely 
over  the  earthly.  Paul,  in  fetters  before  Felix,  was 
grander  than  if  clad  in  the  purple  of  the  Caesars ;  and 
poor  was  the  throne  of  their  empire  compared  with  the 
cross  of  Calvary. 

3.  The  spirit  of  Christian  forgiveness  is  magnani- 
mous. We  read  in  olden  story  of  those  who,  when 
they  gained  a  victory,  dragged  the  unfortunate  to  their 
chariots.  How  much  nobler  are  the  conquerors  who 
bear  their  honors  meekly  ;  but  high  above  them  all  are 


206  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS. 

the  heroic  souls  who  refuse  to  pay  back  injury  for 
injury.  There  are  wrongs  which  are  more  cruel  than 
death ;  yet  is  there  a  power  in  the  gospel  even  superior 
to  such  wrongs.  You  rise  to  a  heavenly  sublimity  of 
moral  strength,  when  that  power  is  yours, —  yours  in  the 
face  of  accumulated  provocation.  Have  you  endured 
evils,  —  eyils  undeserved,  —  evils  in  return  for  good, — 
evils  to  the  piercing  of  your  heart  and  the  destruction  of 
your  safety?  Have  you  been  the  victim  of  injustice, 
which  has  haunted  you  with  false  accusation  to  the 
court  of  judgment?  Has  the  calumniator  followed  you 
with  stealthy  pace,  and  wounded  you  in  your  dearest 
life?  Have  you  been  deserted  —  deserted  in  the  hour 
of  need  —  by  those  who  should  have  been  faithful  to 
death  ?  Has  your  friend  betrayed  you  in  the  midst  of 
enemies?  All  these  our  Saviour  endured;  he  endured 
them  to  the  cross  ;  and  on  the  cross  the  spirit  of  pardon 
was  glorified. 

The  temper  which  retaliates  an  injury  does  not 
belong  to  a  great  mind  or  a  good  one.  Suppose  a 
case  ;  let  it  contain  all  that  it  is  the  hardest  to  endure  ; 
the  unkindness  that  cuts  the  soul ;  the  injury  that  shocks 
the  sense  of  right ;  let  it  be  ingratitude  which  forgets 
generous  assistance  nobly  given  ;  let  it  be  the  violation 
of  promises,  the  breach  of  trust,  the  betrayal  of  confi- 
dence ;  let  it  be  a  malice  which,  unable  longer  to  con- 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS.          207 

ceal  itself,  follows  its  object  with  untiring  hate, — a  malice 
which  has  no  hope  but  in  the  destruction  of  a  benefac- 
tor, and  which,  for  that  purpose,  concentrates  all  the 
forces  of  its  cunning.  See,  then,  this  pursuer  within 
grasp  of  the  man  for  whose  life  he  thirsted  ;  and  you 
behold  David  in  the  desert  over  the  sleeping  body  of 
Saul !  Passion  would  have  given  a  fatal  sentence ; 
even  prudence  might  have  suggested  an  apology  ;  op- 
portunity favored  its  execution ;  one  stroke  of  a  poniard 
had  avenged  David's  wrongs,  and  raised  his  ambition 
to  a  throne.  Policy  might  have  whispered  that  it  was 
a  dictate  of  wisdom  ;  sophistry,  that  it  was  the  judgment 
of  heaven,  —  that  it  was  the  fulfilment  of  destiny.  But, 
in  the  heart  of  David,  feelings  more  honest  were  tri- 
umphant, and  he  was  faithful  to  conscience  and  to  truth. 
What  sublimity  do  we  cast  around  the  fugitive,  in  an 
attitude  of  forbearance  over  the  powerless  body  of  his 
foe !  but  had  a  dangerous  temptation  prevailed  over 
generous  principle,  how  much  the  assassin  would  have 
sunk  below  the  tyrant ! 

Vindictive  action  always  turns  the  current  of  our 
sympathy  ;  the  injurer  becomes  the  sufferer  ;  the 
avenger  then  takes  the  place  of  the  injurer,  and  loses 
all  hold  on  our  brotherly  interest.  He  has  sought  com- 
pensation in  his  own  way,  and  he  must  abide  by  what 
he  has  taken.  Nay,  when  a  man  has  once  avenged  an 


'203  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS. 

injury  done  him,  he  then  becomes  his  own  accuser  ;  he 
reviews  his  action  with  remorse,  and  he  wishes  it  were 
not  done  ;  but  then  his  wishes  are  in  vain,  and  the  deed 
must  continue  fixed  in  the  irrevocable  past.  When  a 
man  has  fully  avenged  his  own  injury,  he  immediately 
becomes  advocate  for  his  adversary.  His  sympathies 
plead  for  him,  while  conscience  accuses  himself.  He 
perceives  the  mitigations  which  soften  the  guilt  of  the 
transgressor,  and  he  perceives  as  clearly  the  circum- 
stances which  aggravate  his  own.  He  falls  in  his  own 
esteem ;  and  he  is  conscious  that  he  has  lessened  the 
esteem  of  others.  He  mourns  that  he  had  not  more 
self-restraint  ;  that  he  had  not  more  magnanimous 
resolution  ;  he  is  bowed  under  a  sense  of  his  umvorthi- 
ness,  and  the  memory  of  his  unkindness.  Satiety,  in 
other  passions,  is  the  end  of  pleasure  ;  satiety  in 
revenge  is  but  the  beginning  of  sorrows.  It  is  not  that 
others  set  us  in  place  of  the  injurer ;  we  do  it  our- 
selves ;  and  the  pain  which  we  caused  to  him  returns 
upon  us  a  hundred-fold.  It  is  thus  that  every  evil 
passion  becomes  in  itself  a  torment.  It  is  odious  to 
our  inspection  ;  it  is  bitter  in  our  experience  ;  promise 
what  it  will,  its  consummation  is  but  wrath. 

One  may  pretend  to  quiet  in  the  sight  of  men ;  he 
may  justify  himself  with  ingenious  arguments,  and  with 
many  words ;  but  the  irritation  of  his  soul  consumes 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS.  209 

him  ;  with  no  consolation  from  Calvary,  he  endures 
the  agony  of  crucifixion.  In  the  sight  of  God  and  man, 
in  the  secret  conviction  of  the  soul,  the  forgiver  has  the 
award  of  righteousness,  and  he  has  the  position  of 
greatness.  Is  not  the  implacable  spirit  generally  con- 
nected with  some  other  unholy  passion  ?  Is  it  not  the 
associate  of  disappointed  avarice  or  ambition  —  often 
mere  envy  in  a  mask  ?  It  is,  in  many  instances,  not  a 
man's  fault,  but  his  success,  which  creates  the  offence  ; 
not  his  demerit,  but  his  superiority  ;  because  he  has  the 
power  to  excel,  it  is  his  misfortune  to  provoke  those  to 
whom  none  can  be  amiable,  but  such  as  have  nothing 
to  dispute,  and  to  whose  friendship,  the  best  recom- 
mendation is  subserviency  or  incapacity. 

4.  Let  us  consider  what  a  blessed  spirit  is  that  of 
Christian  forgiveness,  of  Christian  mercy.  It  keeps  us 
in  the  love  of  God,  because  it  keeps  us  in  his  likeness 
God  is  our  benign  father,  and  He  who  is  good  to  us 
all,  commands  us  to  be  good  to  each  other.  In  the 
degree  we  fulfill  this  command,  we  have  confidence 
towards  God  ;  we  can  approach  Him  with  simple  trust, 
and  we  can  ask  with  sincerity  for  that  pardon  which 
we  have  given.  Never  is  the  human  heart  more  in  the 
image  of  God,  than  when  it  pardons  with  a  free  and 
generous  bounty  ;  never  does  a  man  seem  to  tower  up 
to  the  dignity  and  happiness  of  the  Creator,  more  than 
14 


210  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS. 

when  he  dispenses  mercy,  and  foregoes  every  remem- 
brance of  his  wrongs.  This  spirit  living  once  within 
us,  we  know  the  deep  love  of  Christ,  and  we  enjoy 
communion  with  his  exalted  soul.  We  are  enlarged 
with  his  divine  expansion  ;  we  escape  from  the  strait- 
ened selfishness,  which  seeks  retaliation  for  every 
offence,  and  in  retaliation  finds  but  torture.  We  enjoy 
repose  of  soul ;  the  passions  that  convulse  it  are  not 
aroused,  nay,  they  are  conquered,  and  the  affections 
govern  in  a  tranquil  reign.  Our  days  are  days  of 
peace  ;  the  calm  sky  is  a  mirror  of  our  experience  ; 
the  sun  gleaming  in  the  quiet  lake,  is  as  the  light  of 
heaven  in  our  thoughts.  Our  work  proceeds  in  secu- 
rity, and  it  proceeds  with  effect ;  for  our  energies  are 
not  divided,  and  they  are  not  disturbed.  The  face  of 
man  is  pleasant  to  us,  we  are  conscious  of  no  malice, 
of  no  evil  intention  ;  and  every  man  is,  therefore,  our 
brother. 

If  there  be  any  who  think  hardly  of  us,  we  do  not 
add  to  the  evil  by  returning  it ;  if  there  be  any  that 
wish  us  harm,  we  will  not  realize  their  wish  by  its 
reciprocation  ;  if  there  be  any  who  would  do  us  wrong, 
we  wilt  not  anticipate  their  action  against  ourselves, 
by  doing  to  them  the  misdeed  which  they  contem- 
plate against  vs.  We  preserve  the  goodness  of  our 
hearts,  and  then  we  have  the  peace  which  cannot 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS.  211 

be  taken  from  us.  Like  charity  "  mercy "  never 
faileth.  If  we  do  good  to  them  who  hate  us,  we  are 
doubly  happy,  and  they  have  no  power  to  hurt  us. 
Mercy  is  from  above  :  — 

"  It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  ;  it  is  twice  blessed  ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes." 

But  how  accursed  is  the  spirit  of  hatred  !  the  dead- 
liest spirit  and  the  worst,  which  the  poet  places  in  his 
Pandemonium  of  evil.  Gloomily,  she  came  upon  the 
world,  as  smoke  from  the  bottomless  pit,  shrouding  the 
sun  of  heaven,  and  withering  the  beauty  of  earth. 
Onward  she  has  trod  her  fearful  way,  the  dark  minister 
of  terror.  Her  throat  is  an  open  sepulchre  ;  with  her 
tongue  she  uses  deceit ;  the  poison  of  asps  is  under  her 
lips  ;  her  mouth  is  full  of  cursing  and  bitterness ;  her 
feet  are  swift  to  shed  blood  ;  destruction  and  misery 
are  in  her  ways  ;  the  way  of  peace  she  has  not  known  ; 
there  is  no  fear  of  God  before  her  eyes.  Hers  it  is  to 
sow  discord  among  brethren  ;  hers  to  scatter  party 
spirit  and  bigotry  over  the  land  ;  hers  to  make  children 
of  the  same  soil  Cains  to  one  another ;  hers  to 
dash  nation  against  nation,  and  to  bury  millions  in  the 
shock  ;  hers  to  rejoice  in  evil  as  her  good,  and  to  glory 
when  evil  is  triumphant.  When  domestic  peace  has 
fled  the  hearth ;  when  tranquillity  is  banished  from  the 


212  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS. 

neighborhood  ;  when  the  avenger  plunges  the  death- 
weapon  in  his  opponent's  bosom  ;  when  the  incendiary 
purples  the  midnight  with  a  sanguinary  blaze  ;  when 
the  plain  is  reeking,  and  the  city  heaves  in  agony,  and 
thrones  tremble  in  the  crash, —  Hatred  is  there  ;  there 
in  ruthless  fury  ;  there  in  exulting  malevolence  ; 
there  amidst  tribulation  and  anguish,  feasting  her  soul 
on  banquets  of  pain,  and  celebrating  her  conquest 
amidst  misery  and  despair !  O !  may  the  power  of 
Jesus  expel  her  from  the  world  !  consume  the  fiend 
with  the  spirit  of  his  mouth,  and  destroy  her  with  the 
brightness  of  his  coming  ! 

II.  What  does  the  spirit  of  Christian  forgiveness 
require  of  us,  and  by  what  motives  may  it  be  strength- 
ened ?  This  I  can  but  briefly  touch,  and  close. 

1.  It  requires  of  us,  forbearance  ;  and  not  forbear- 
ance, simply,  of  outward  action,  but  of  inward  feeling. 
There  is  this  difference  between  the  forgiving  man, 
and  the  revengeful  man,  that  the  one  finds  pleasure  in 
forgetting,  and  the  other  in  remembering  his  wrongs  ; 
the  one  uses  every  exertion  to  diminish  the  sense  of 
injury,  and  the  other  uses  every  exertion  to  increase  it. 
It  is  a  painful,  and  in  truth,  a  self-crucifying  disposition, 
which  is  compelled  to  linger  on  the  dark  side  of  things, 
and  especially  on  such  views  of  character  as  tend  to 
foster  gloomy  sentiments.  By  leaving  out  of  frequent 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS.  213 

contemplation  irritating  recollections,  we  may  do  much 
to  suppress  such  a  tendency.  One  dark  thought 
cherished  in  the  mind,  has  an  evil  fecundity  of  others 
darker  than  itself.  But  the  mind  that  turns  from  the 
evil  to  seek  the  good,  will  ever  find  sufficient  to  recom- 
pense its  labor,  and  to  mitigate  its  severity.  And, 
granting  that  one's  idea  of  an  enemy's  character 
should  not  be  as  evil  as  that  character  deserves,  yet 
how  much  better  is  it,  to  preserve  the  simplicity  of 
charity,  than  to  nourish  the  prejudice  of  aversion ;  how 
much  better  to  discern  in  the  vague  obscurity,  floating 
images  of  good,  than  to  magnify,  by  the  mist  of  anger, 
every  fault  into  gigantic  stature. 

The  spirit  of  Christian  forgiveness  requires  compas- 
sion as  well  as  forbearance  —  not  general  compas- 
sion for  the  external  misfortune  of  an  enemy,  simply, 
but  compassion  for  his  very  enmity.  And  is  there  not 
a  cause  ?  If  we  conceive  the  unutterable  delight  of  a 
genial  and  benignant  temper,  we  must  regard  a  vindic- 
tive disposition  as  a  sad  affliction,  and  we  must  pity  the 
man  who  feeds  the  serpent  which  stings  himself.  We 
feel  compassion  in  proportion  to  the  height  from  which 
any  being  falls.  No  one,  then,  more  needs  it,  than  he 
who  is  the  prey  of  uncharitable  dispositions,  for  he 
descends  the  most  from  his  heavenly  origin,  and 
becomes  the  most  unlike  a  child  of  God.  But  the 


214          THE  SPIBIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS. 

spirit  of  Christian  forgiveness,  can  rise  to  positive  good 
towards  an  enemy.  A  man,  under  its  influence,  would 
do  justice  to  his  enemy's  merits ;  he  would  admit  his 
virtues  ;  make  allowance  for  his  weakness ;  defend  his 
character ;  sympathize  with  his  affliction ;  desire  his 
happiness,  and,  if  possible,  aid  him  to  attain  it.  He 
would  thus  try  to  make  impression  by  the  silent 
eloquence  of  elevated  principle  ;  he  would  prove,  by 
his  entire  conduct,  how  superior  charity  is  to  pride  ; 
he  would  embrace  every  opportunity  to  remove  misap- 
prehension ;  he  would  fall  upon  the  heart  of  his  oppo- 
nent with  gentle  droppings  of  kindness  ;  and  he  would 
wear  into  his  affections,  though  they  were  coated  by  a 
rock. 

2.  By  what  motives  shall  we  actuate  this  spirit? 
The  motives  are  as  many  as  they  are  impressive.  Our 
great  fallibility  ought,  in  the  first  place,  to  restrain  our 
judgments.  We  are  liable  to  mistakes,  respecting 
others,  even  in  their  external  life  ;  we  can  but  dimly 
see  it;  we  behold  it  in  remote  perspective,  and  we 
hear  of  it  with  uncertain  sound.  How  seldom  do  we 
discern  an  event  in  its  several  relations ;  how  seldom 
have  we  any  saying  exactly  as  it  was.  If  the  outward 
life  is  thus  partial  to  our  apprehensions,  how  much 
beyond  our  vision  is  the  inward.  When  we  attempt  to 
judge  of  this,  how  we  must  be  mocked  and  baffled. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS.  215 

How  can  we  read  the  heart !  How  can  we  see  what 
may  be  there,  which  may  falsify  all  our  conjectures, 
and  be  the  very  contradictory  of  what  we  had  supposed. 
How  can  we  know  in  what  a  different  light  our  words 
or  deeds  appeared  to  that  heart,  from  what  they  seemed 
to  ourselves!  But,  if  we  must  be  thus  uncertain  in 
our  decision,  how  can  we  adjust  the  punishment  ?  We 
may  punish  the  innocent,  or  we  may  punish  above 
measure. 

Moreover,  in  both  the  judgment  and  the  sentence, 
the  court  of  inquiry,  and  the  tribunal  of  allotment,  are 
with  ourselves :  self-love  presides,  and  passion  argues. 
Alas,  if  conscience  be  not  allowed  the  prerogative  of 
revision,  the  case  has  but  small  chance  of  fairness. 
Nor  is  it  incapacity,  alone,  that  should  restrain  our  se- 
verity, but  also,  the  knowledge  that  our  own  sins  have 
taken  from  us  the  title  to  deal  vengeance.  We  are 
not  qualified  to  be  avengers,  while  we  are  in  the  deep- 
est want  of  forbearance.  The  attitude  of  suppliants 
is  more  appropriate  to  us  than  that  of  inexorable  ac- 
cusers. Let  any  one,  in  a  meditative  hour,  ask  himself 
how  constantly  he  needs  to  be  regarded  with  a  forbear- 
ing and  benignant  spirit ;  let  him  think  how  wretched 
he  would  be,  if  he  did  not  meet  this  in  his  fellow- 
creatures  ;  and  he  will  arise,  I  apprehend,  disposed  to 
return  the  mercy  he  requires. 


216  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS. 

3.  Let  us  think,  too,  of  our  common  origin,  and  our 
common  end.  Children  of  one  Father,  shall  any  em- 
bitter the  way  to  the  home  which  he  has  prepared  for 
them  in  heaven  ?  Shall  they  pervert  the  powers  of 
undying  souls,  to  destroy  each  other's  peace,  and  to 
work  each  other  ill  ?  Shall  they,  who  are  to  live  to- 
gether in  the  existence  of  eternity,  hate  each  other  in 
the  sojourn  of  a  moment  ?  In  any  great  calamity,  this 
common  nature  assumes  its  supremacy,  and  then  divis- 
ions and  disputes  are  lost  in  its  immensity.  Let  ship- 
wreck cast  a  number  upon  the  perils  of  the  waves,  or 
the  famine  of  the  rocks  ;  let  an  appalling  danger  unite 
them  all  in  sorrow  ;  and  the  most  violent  enemies  are 
made  brothers.  Mortality  and  tears  efface  their  disa- 
greements. Behold  the  visitation  of  general  disease  ! 
The  feuds  which  disturbed  a  city  are  hushed  ;  the 
spites  and  vanities  that  separated  neighbors  are  heard 
no  more ;  the  insults  which  seemed  unpardonable,  are 
turned  into  puerile  trifles  ;  the  adversaries  that  shunned 
each  other  in  silent  pride,  address  each  other  with  sym- 
pathy and  concern ;  a  universal  pardon  takes  place, 
in  the  humility  of  universal  suffering.  And  yet,  my 
brethren,  the  common  lot  of  pain  and  death,  though 
less  violently,  is  quite  as  certainly  proclaimed  through 
every  hour,  and  on  every  tomb.  We  are  all  as  united 
in  this  awful  destiny,  as  if  Death  met  us  in  the  roar  of 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIAN  FORGIVENESS.  217 

the  waters,  or  in  the  mortality  of  the  plague  ;  as  surely 
are  we  all  passing  to  one  bourne,  in  our  straggling 
isolations,  as  if  we  went  together  in  bands  of  ten 
thousand  each.  Silently,  affliction  is  in  the  shadows 
of  life ;  without  noise  is  death  pacing  the  chambers  of 
the  merry  world  ;  without  any  visible  consternation, 
humanity  is  swept  from  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
Why  should  we  then  wrangle  ?  Why  rather  should 
we  not  aid  each  other  ?  Why  should  not  our  solemn 
duties,  and  our  hastening  end,  render  us  so  united,  that 
personal  contention  would  be  impossible,  in  a  general 
sympathy,  quickened  by  the  breath  of  a  forbearing  and 
pitying  charity. 


DAVID :  SPIRITUAL  INCONGRUITIES. 


1  SAM.  xvii.  58. 

SAUL  SAID  UNTO  HIM,  WHOSE  SON  ART  THOU,  YOUNG  MAN  ?  AND 
DAVID  ANSWERED,  I  AM  THE  SON  OF  THY  SERVANT  JE3SE,  THE 
BETHLAMITE. 

"  HISTORY,"  it  has  been  remarked,  "  is  philosophy 
teaching  by  example  ;"  but  history  teaches  truly,  only 
so  far  as  we  conceive  justly  of  the  events  and  charac- 
ters which  it  describes.  And,  indeed,  as  modern 
writers  generally  describe  the  remote  Past,  it  is  ex- 
tremely difficult  to  gather  from  their  smooth  narrations 
any  just  ideas  of  things  or  persons  as  they  really  were. 
Most  modern  writers  translate  —  so  to  speak  —  distant 
ages  into  the  dialect  of  their  own,  and  they  ascribe  mo- 
tives and  designs  to  ancient  characters,  which  have  no 
more  fitness  than  if  we  were  to  paint  their  persons  in  our 
costume.  We  ought  to  be  transported  to  the  time  which 
we  would  study,  by  the  force  of  a  moral  and  sympa- 
thetic imagination.  We  ought  to  cast  our  existence 
into  the  midst  of  its  passions  and  its  interests  ;  and  our 
existence,  for  the  while,  should  take  the  shape  of  these 


SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES.  219 

passions,  and  the  fashion  of  these  interests.  It  is  a 
noble  exercise  of  our  noblest  faculties,  to  call  into 
renovated  being  the  transcendent  men  whom  the  me- 
mory of  humanity  has  canonized.  It  is  as  exalting 
as  it  is  instructive,  to  clothe  them  again  by  fancy, 
in  flesh  and  blood,  to  hear  their  serious  voices,  and  to 
listen  to  their  august  and  solemn  wisdom.  It  is  an 
enlargement  of  our  own  existence,  to  question  the  cen- 
turies which  have  gone,  and  to  compel  them  to  reveal 
to  us  the  knowledge  which  enriched  them.  It  is  an 
influence  fraught  with  the  deepest  inspiration,  to  enter 
into  the  life  of  departed  ages;  to  converse  with  those 
who  originated  or  governed  their  grand  activities,  —  to 
converse  with  them,  not  as  dim  and  distant  shadows, 
but  as  real  and  bodily  men,  —  to  converse  with  them  as 
formed  by  the  circumstances  of  their  nation  and  their 
day. 

I  have  tried  myself,  in  this  way  of  study,  to  appre- 
hend the  character  of  David.  I  have  tried  to  enter 
into  his  age,  and  into  his  surrounding  circumstances  ; 
to  look  upon  him  as  a  great,  inspired,  tempted,  sorrow- 
ing soul ;  and  in  this  spirit  I  shall  try  to  speak  of  him. 
I  shall  try  to  speak  of  him  with  sympathy,  with  truth, 
with  admiration,  with  reverence,  yet  with  sadness  also. 
Let  no  hearer,  therefore,  misunderstand  me.  David 
was  a  prophet,  but  I  shall  speak  most  of  him  as  a  man ; 


220    .  SPIRITUAL   INCONGRUITIES. 

and  I  desire  most  to  call  your  attention  to  him  in  his 
actual  and  his  merely  human  life.  This  it  will  be  my 
effort  to  briefly  sketch,  and,  as  I  sketch  it,  to  connect 
such  reflections  with  the  statement  as  arise  naturally 
out  of  the  incidents. 

Saul  had  fallen  under  the  denunciation  of  Samuel. 
His  fate  was  sealed  beyond  the  power  of  repentance. 
He  was  prophetically  rejected  from  being  king  over 
Israel.  A  hero  in  spirit  and  in  life,  warlike  and  am- 
bitious, loss  of  power  was  the  heaviest  affliction  he 
feared  or  could  endure.  At  once  passionate  and  super- 
stitious, he  sank  under  the  words  of  the  stern  priest. 
He  lost  his  tranquillity  and  he  lost  his  trust.  Alternate- 
ly he  became  the  prey  of  fury  and  of  despondency. 

It  was  in  an  hour  when  the  fitful  storm  brooded 
most  darkly  over  his  mind,  that  a  youth  was  introduced 
to  his  presence,  —  a  shepherd  youth,  that  drew  from 
the  harp  of  Israel  its  holiest  and  its  sweetest  sounds,  a 
most  gracious  music,  that  fell  as  a  voice  from  heaven 
upon  the  morbid  feelings  of  the  monarch,  and  charmed 
that  agitated  breast  into  repose,  —  that  morbid  breast  to 
which  peace  had  been  long  a  stranger.  That  youth 
was  David, —  David,  the  rustic  boy;  David,  yet  free, 
and  ardent,  and  happy  ;  David,  yet  pure  in  his  en- 
thusiasm, yet  throbbing  with  incipient  poetry,  with 
innocent  affections,  with  patriotic  ardor,  with  every 


SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES.  221 

generous  desire.  This  great  and  gifted  youth  comes 
from  his  pastoral  retreats.  And  he  also  is  to  be  a  king. 
He  also  is  to  feel  convulsions  deeper  than  those  which 
he  came  to  soothe.  He  also  is  to  sit  and  mourn  in  a 
midnight  which  has  no  star  to  cheer  it.  He  also  is  to 
seek  for  solace,  when  his  heart  is  sad,  yet  find  none  at 
hand  to  give  it.  He,  the  joyous  and  elastic  lad,  is  to 
bow  down  his  head  in  anguish,  to  water  his  couch  with 
tears,  to  mingle  his  bread  with  ashes,  to  clothe  his  soul 
in  sackcloth,  to  be  as  a  sparrow  on  the  house-top,  to 
be  as  a  pelican  in  the  wilderness,  to  glitter  in  the  midst 
of  royalty  and  state ;  but  to  bear  in  secret  every  torture 
of  a  wounded  spirit,  yet  find  none  who  could  minister 
to  a  mind  diseased,  —  to  feel  companionless  in  the  multi- 
tude, and  despairing  when  alone,  —  to  tremble  in  dark- 
ness, and  to  fear  the  light. 

The  opening  of  David's  public  course  glows  with 
sublime  ardor,  and  is  full  of  heroism.  Goliah,  the 
champion  of  the  Philistines,  mighty  in  stature  and 
swelled  up  in  pride,  challenged  the  hosts  of  Israel  for 
a  man  that  could  oppose  him.  Well  might  they  stand 
in  consternation.  They  were  before  an  exulting  and 
powerful  enemy.  They  were  enfeebled,  they  were 
humiliated ;  having  lost  obedience,  they  had  lost  their 
courage.  Unbelieving  towards  their  God,  they  had 
become  cravens  towards  their  country. 


222  SPIRITUAL   INCONGRUITIES. 

The  stripling,  David,  comes  forth  in  this  dismay. 
He  is  asked  to  clothe  himself  in  heavy  armor,  but  he 
will  not  have  it.  His  friends  would  try  to  invest  him 
with  strong  weapons,  but  he  will  none  of  them.  He 
has  no  hope  in  brute  force.  He  has  no  hope  in  animal 
contention.  He  knows  that,  within  these  terms,  all 
odds  are  against  him ;  and  he  looks  for  power  to  higher 
and  better  sources.  A  few  stones  and  a  sling,  these 
are  all  that  he  will  take.  He  will  go  forward  against 
presumptuous  self-confidence.  He  understood  where 
the  noblest  strength  lay,  and  nobly  he  used  it.  He 
showed  what  the  whole  history  of  man  exhibits,  —  that 
faith  in  divine  protection,  that  devotion  to  conscience, 
that  intellectual  skill,  that  moral  enthusiasm,  can 
trample  down  resistance,  however  gigantic. 

What  is  muscle  at  any  time  against  mind  ?  What 
is  passion  against  belief  ?  What  is  frenzied  anger 
against  deliberative  conviction  ?  Reverence  and  Rea- 
son are  the  true  conquerors  of  the  earth.  To  them 
belong  the  victory,  and  to  them  belong  dominion. 
David  stands  out,  as  a  type  of  this  great  power.  The 
monster  fell  dead  before  his  missile,  and  he,  the  victor, 
has  left  a  record  for  our  learning,  to  reveal  to  us,  for 
everlasting  ages,  what  is  the  potency  of  the  gifted  and 
the  inspired  mind.  David's  victory  over  Goliah  is  but 
a  prophetic  condensation  of  what  true  minds  have  been 


SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES. 

doing  ever  since  ;  and  all  that  the  noblest  minds  have 
done,  to  subdue  the  antagonisms  of  passion  and  of 
matter,  are  foreshadowed  in  this  action  of  David's.  He 
may  be  placed  as  the  deathless  incarnation  of  what 
trust  and  thought  can  accomplish  against  tyranny  and 
force. 

Success,  however,  must  pay  its  penalty.  Distinction 
must  meet  the  spectral  shadow  of  envy  on  its  path.  It 
must  find  the  sunshine  dimmed  by  grim  distortion. 
David  fared  as  greatness  has  fared  in  every  period. 
He  encountered  malice  where  he  earned  gratitude. 
By  the  amount  of  obligations  which  he  conferred,  he 
provoked  the  dislike  which  never  pardons ;  and  by  the 
applause  which  he  inspired,  he  became  odious  to  the 
vanity  that  can  tolerate  all  things  in  others  except  their 
merit.  He  had  only  the  destiny  of  his  class.  The 
acclamations  of  his  countrymen  drew  upon  him  the 
hatred  of  his  sovereign.  He  endured  that  hatred 
with  untiring  fortitude.  He  made  it  the  return  of  a 
magnanimous  forbearance.  Twice  he  stood  over  his 
sleeping  enemy,  and  twice  he  refused  to  purchase  by  a 
stroke  security  and  a  crown. 

This  was  the  brightest  era  of  David's  life.  Stained 
it  was  with  the  evils  of  his  time,  but  yet  it  was 
ennobled  by  heroic  virtues  and  by  manly  affections. 
And  of  these  his  purest  was  the  friendship  for 


224  SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES. 

Jonathan.  But  Jonathan  was  worthy,  most  worthy 
of  the  strongest  and  the  most  lasting  affection.  There 
was  in  the  character  of  Jonathan  an  inexpressible 
attraction,  a  most  winning  sweetness,  a  rare  union  of 
mildness  and  strength,  of  courage  and  repose.  Dutiful 
to  his  father,  he  was  faithful  to  his  friend.  Admitting 
his  parent's  rights,  he  did  not  partake  his  passions.  He 
gave  to  Saul,  through  all  his  fury,  the  obedience  of  a 
subject  and  the  reverence  of  a  son.  Still  he  is  faithful 
to  David  ;  true  to  him  in  danger,  loyal  to  him  in 
distress,  protecting  him  with  sleepless  vigilance,  ad- 
hering to  him  with  unabated  love.  Withal,  %he  does 
not  desert  his  father.  He  was  near  him  ever.  He 
hovered  around  him,  like  a  guardian  spirit.  He 
lingered  under  the  shadow  of  his  fate.  And  when  at 
last  the  hour  of  destiny  came,  he  was  struggling  by 
his  father's  side,  and  there  in  valiant  combat  he  gave 
forth  his  breath.  Short  in  his  career,  cut  off  in  the 
midst  of  his  days,  gentle  in  his  life,  brave  in  his 
death,  well  did  he  deserve  the  lamentation  which  David 
uttered, — "  O,  Jonathan,  slain  on  thine  own  moun- 
tains ;  I  am  in  distress  for  thee,  my  brother  Jonathan, 
very  dear  wast  thou  to  me ;  wonderful  was  thy  love 
unto  me,  passing  the  love  of  women  ;  how  have  the 
mighty  fallen  ! " 

David  was  one  of  those  great   and  original   men, 


SPIRITUAL   INCONGRUITIES.  225 

whom  humanity  at  rare  intervals  produces.  His  mind 
was  of  that  order  which  creates  the  age  in  which  it 
lives,  and  that  saves  or  destroys  the  nation  which  it 
rules.  His  character  was  that  which  Time,  if  it  would, 
is  not  able  to  kill ;  that  which  History  is  forced  to 
remember.  It  is  the  destiny  of  transcendent  power, 
whether  it  be  good  or  whether  it  be  bad,  to  leave  ever- 
lasting impression  on  the  affairs  of  mankind.  David 
was  a  man  of  power,  various  and  exalted.  Strong  in 
intellect,  and  wise  in  experience ;  strong  in  will,  and 
commanding  in  expression ;  strong  in  every  attribute 
which  compels  obedience,  he  was  accomplished  also 
in  the  qualities  that  win  it.  Poetry,  music,  architec- 
ture, he  loved  with  extreme  desire  ;  he  advanced  them 
with  a  noble  zeal.  Poetry,  in  sweetest  melody  and  in 
boldest  flight,  —  music,  in  the  inspired  simplicity  of  its 
early  youth,  —  he  loved  and  practised  with  the  most 
passionate  enthusiasm.  Architecture,  too,  was  familiar 
to  him  in  the  utmost  splendor  of  original  conception ; 
for  it  was  he  who  designed  the  temple  of  Jerusalem, 
though  it  was  his  son  Solomon  who  carried  the  design 
into  execution. 

When  we  consider  the  obscurity  from  which  David 

was  drawn,  the  majesty  of  his  ideas  and  his  deeds  must 

strike  us  with  exceeding  admiration.     In  the  heroes  of 

antiquity  there  is  no  man  that  can  approach  compari- 

15 


226  SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES. 

son  with  him  ;  and  still  less  has  he  any  parallel  in  the 
most  magnificent  impersonations  of  our  modern  life. 
In  some  points  he  resembled  Bonaparte.  Like  Bona- 
parte, he  arose  from  the  people,  and  sat  upon  his  throne 
by  their  will ;  like  Bonaparte,  his  people  adored  him, 
and  would  endure  to  the  last  extremity  of  human  na- 
ture for  his  interest.  Like  Bonaparte,  he  was  a  con- 
queror. His  circumstances  were  created  by  the  age, 
and  not  by  himself.  He  had  to  meet  and  to  subdue 
them  as  best  he  could.  He  was  forced  into  fight,  and 
fight  he  did,  with  most  electric  courage  and  decision. 
With  his  most  rapid  genius,  he  flashed  defeat  upon  his 
enemies  before  they  were  aware  of  his  approach.  The 
necessity  to  fight  indulged  the  disposition  to  fight ;  one 
victory  led  to  another  ;  and  as  he  acquired  territory  by 
the  sword,  he  increased  it  and  he  enlarged  it  more 
and  yet  more. 

Like  Bonaparte,  he  was  a  dictator.  He  had,  to  be 
sure,  his  great  and  mighty  men,  for  he  knew,  by  the 
glance  of  a  look,  the  man  who  was  born  to  control  his 
associates  ;  and  as  he  knew  the  man,  he  selected  him. 
The  great  and  mighty  men  of  both  were  subordinates, 
but  not  competitors  ;  and  herein  consisted  the  great- 
ness of  both,  that  they  had  power  to  make  them  sub- 
ordinates. Like  Bonaparte,  he  was  a  legislator.  He 
gave  his  people  laws,  and  he  established  among  them 


SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES.  227 

a  settled  and  systematic  administration.  But  he  had  a 
piety,  and  a  faith,  and  devotional  sensibility,  of  which 
the  mighty  modern  had  not  a  single  impulse. 

There  is  another  modern,  to  whom  David  also  bears, 
in  some  degree,  a  resemblance, —  Peter  the  Great,  of 
Russia.  David,  as  Peter,  found  only  barbarism  in  the 
land  ;  but  ere  he  died,  it  was  exalted  and  civilized. 
The  great  king  of  Israel,  as  the  great  czar  of  Russia, 
was  the  patron  of  every  art,  and  the  friend  of  every 
genius  who  could  raise  his  country  into  prosperity  and 
dignity.  He  found  his  brethren  dwelling  in  tents ;  he 
departed  from  among  them  living  in  palaces.  He 
found  them  scattered  tribes ;  he  left  them  a  collected 
and  compacted  nation.  He  found  them  diggers  and 
herdsmen  ;  he  left  them  heroes  and  princes.  The 
desert  disappeared,  and  where  the  thorn  and  the  thistle 
grew,  there  sprung  the  vine,  and  the  olive  tree,  and  the 
wheat  field  :  and  from  them,  wine,  that  makes  man 
glad,  and  oil,  that  gives  him  a  cheerful  countenance, 
and  bread,  that  strengthens  his  heart.  Where  the  sight 
met  nothing  but  solitary  waste,  he  caused  the  adorned 
city  to  spring  up  ;  and  he  strengthened  it  for  war,  and 
he  beautified  it  for  peace.  Under  the  guidance  of  his 
stupendous  mind,  the  land  was  filled  with  plenty,  the 
sea  was  covered  with  commerce,  literature  was  en- 
couraged, industry  was  successful,  victory  waited  on 
arms,  and  wisdom  prevailed  in  counsel. 


228  SPIRITUAL   INCONGRUITIES. 

If  we  contrast  David  with  Saul,  David  appears  as 
superior  as  heaven  is  to  earth.  It  is  superiority,  not  of 
an  improved  succession,  but  of  a  new  creation.  Saul, 
like  David,  was  exalted  from  common  to  kingly  life. 
Saul,  like  David,  was  a  man  of  battle,  and  a  man  of 
blood  ;  —  and  here  the  resemblance  closes.  To  the 
end,  Saul  was  only  the  savage  warrior,  a  man  of  might 
and  daring,  a  man  of  prowess  and  enthusiasm.  This 
agrees  fully  with  his  personal  qualities,  and  is  in  no- 
wise opposed  to  his  original  condition.  It  is  all  that  we 
might  imagine,  and  our  expectations  are  neither  sur- 
passed nor  contradicted.  Commanding  in  the  qualities 
which  make  a  man  of  war,  David  had,  in  more  signal 
perfection,  those  which  in  a  better  period  would  have 
made  a  man  of  peace.  Distinguished  by  his  valor,  he 
was  yet  more  ennobled  by  attributes,  without  which 
valor  is  but  brutal  impulse  :  by  patriotism,  by  piety,  by 
the  zeal  with  which  he  maintained  the  institutions  of 
religion,  and  by  the  prophet-poetry  with  which  he  in- 
spired the  services  of  the  tabernacle.  Powerful  in 
mind,  in  will,  in  action,  in  passion,  his  character  is 
most  decided,  and  his  crimes  are  as  marked  as  his 
virtues. 

If  we  pass  from  the  incidents  of  David's  life  to  the 
spirit  of  it,  we  have  subject  for  frequent  and  profound 
reflection. 


SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES.  229 

The  history  of  David  leaves  one  impression  on  the 
mind  deeply  and  plainly  ;  and  that  is,  that  moral  prin- 
ciple does  not  always  correspond  with  devotional  sensi- 
bility. I  do  not  say  that  devotional  sensibility  is  not  a 
fine  element  in  moral  action  ;  nay,  I  hold,  that  without 
it,  the  highest  beauty  is  wanting  to  character  and  to 
virtue.  But  still,  devotional  sensibility  may  be  found 
in  many  persons,  who  are  weak  in  right  principles,  and 
unstable  in  right  purposes.  How  fervently  could  David 
pray,  but  how  feebly  did  David  practice !  What 
more  excellent  than  his  sentiments,  what  more  con- 
demnable  than  his  passions  !  How  sublimely  could  his 
spirit  mount  to  heaven,  but  how  terribly  could  he 
wrong  his  neighbor !  Strange,  indeed,  are  the  incon- 
sistencies of  our  nature.  One  part  of  a  man's  life 
will  seem,  often,  the  direct  reverse  of  another.  Who 
would  have  thought  that  David  could  ever  have  incur- 
red the  guilt  he  did  ?  Who  could  have  thought  that 
David,  who,  in  the  first  days  of  his  life,  gave  his  heart 
to  poetry,  and  filled  his  solitude  with  music,  would 
afterwards  so  defile  his  hands  with  blood,  and  so  cover 
his  spirit  with  impurity  ? 

Yet  David  was  not  really  insincere.  It  is  well  and 
wisely  written,  —  The  heart  is  deceitful  above  all 
things ;  who  can  know  it  ?  Much  and  strange  contra- 
diction there  is  in  life,  but  less  of  positive  hypocrisy 


230  SPIRITUAL   INCONGRUITIES. 

than  is  imagined.  David  is  a  type  of  many  kings  and 
many  men.  The  example,  in  this  character  which 
Scripture  gives  us,  is  ever  and  ever  repeated  in  history  ; 
and  it  is  as  often  corroborated  in  daily  life.  We  read 
in  history  —  do  we  not  ?  —  of  monarchs,  who  could 
tremble  in  the  pangs  of  conscience,  as  the  preacher 
denounced  the  judgments  of  God  against  the  unright- 
eous, yet  whose  tears  might  be  said,  almost  without  a 
figure,  to  have  been  dried  in  the  harlot's  smile.  We  read 
of  monarchs  who  could  carry  on  most  guilty  wars, — 
who,  in  blind,  relentless,  and  inhuman  obstinacy, 
could  prolong  the  contest,  —  who,  deaf  to  weeping  and 
careless  of  suffering,  destroyed  as  many  at  home  by 
oppression  as  abroad  by  the  sword ;  yet  some  of  these 
monarchs  were  religious.  They  were  religious  ;  not 
indeed  with  an  elevated  religion,  but  yet  not  with  any 
assumed  or  pretended  zeal.  They  were  not  hypocrites  ; 
nay,  in  their  way,  they  were  earnestly  sincere.  And 
in  our  own  experience,  how  changeful  and  uncertain 
are  our  characters  ?  In  an  hour  we  passionately 
resolve,  and  in  another  as  recklessly  break  our  reso- 
lution. To-day,  pray  with  weeping  and  contrition, 
and  to-morrow  forget  that  God  yet  lives  who  heard  us 
then;  yes,  by  both  consciousness  and  observation,  we 
know  that  guilt  and  folly  may  disorder  a  life,  which 
has  also  in  it  fountains  of  religious  sensibility.  Insta- 


SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES.  231 

bility  and  inconsistency  there  are  in  this,  but  sincerity 
there  is  in  it  also. 

The  real  philosophy  of  the  matter  is,  that  the 
religious  element,  like  the  other  elements  of  our 
nature,  must  be  good  or  bad,  as  it  is  directed.  By 
the  religious  element  I  mean,  in  this  connection,  the 
faculty  which  connects  us  with  the  invisible  and 
eternal  world ;  and  this,  directed  by  ignorance  and 
passion,  may  do,  without  remorse,  deeds  that  have 
no  name,  but,  influenced  by  knowledge  and  by  be- 
nignity, raises  a  man,  not  simply  to  be  a  little  lower, 
than  the  angels,  but  to  be  their  equal  and  their  com- 
panion. But  the  merely  devotional  man  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  virtuous  man  ;  nay,  he  is  not  necessarily  a 
benevelent  man  ;  he  may  fail  in  rectitude,  or  he 
may  fail  in  humanity.  Of  this  principle,  the  whole 
history  of  the  church  gives  sufficient  evidence  :  for 
many  a  devout  man  has  been  dishonest,  and  many 
a  devout  man  has  been  cruel.  I  do  not  join  in  the 
common  cry  which  stigmatizes  all  such  as  hypocrites. 
I  do  not  believe  that  the  failings  of  those,  on  whom  the 
world  charged  inconsistency,  always  sprung  from 
deceit ;  I  simply  believe  that  they  were  men  of  partial 
development,  and  that,  in  the  exaggerated  expression  of 
some  faculties,  others  were  disproportionately,  and 
thence  injuriously,  weakened.  The  mere  devotional 


232  SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES. 

sentiment  will  not,  in  itself,  protect  a  man  against  the 
temptations  of  the  malignant  passions,  as  is  sufficiently 
witnessed  in  many  a  decent  calumniator,  and  in  every 
conscientious  persecutor.  Neither  will  the  devotional 
sentiment,  in  itself,  guard  a  man  against  the  temptations 
of  the  lower  desires.  It  did  not  in  the  case  of  David, 
and  this  we  have  to  lament  the  more  on  account  of  the 
real  grandeur  of  his  soul. 

Wickedness  there  is  abundantly  in  the  world,  and 
so  far  there  is,  in  the  world,  a  universal  subject  and 
cause  of  grief.  But,  when  sin  unites  with  noble  gifts, 
it  is  exceeding  sinful.  When  it  puts  convulsion  into 
the  heart  in  which  there  burned  the  sacred  fire  of  God ; 
when  it  throws  a  foul  blot  upon  the  light  sent  as  a  gift 
from  above  to  guide  millions  in  the  ways  of  righteous- 
ness ;  when  it  disorders  the  heavenward  spirit ;  when 
it  casts  down  the  sons  of  the  morning  from  their 
Empyrean  height,  and  leaves  them  to  grope  their 
degraded  way  in  nether  darkness ;  when  it  makes  the 
life  uncertain,  which  would  have  been  our  trust ;  when 
it  makes  the  conduct  false,  which  would  have  been  our 
comfort  ;  when  it  prostrates  the  generous  and  the 
loving,  on  whom  we  could  have  spent  our  most  pro- 
digal affections ;  we  behold  sin,  then,  as  the  darkest 
enemy,  and  we  start  from  it  in  fear,  while  we  weep  for 
it  in  sorrow.  Very  sinful,  indeed,  were  periods  in  the 


SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES. 

life  of  David.  But  many  were  the  tears  which  he 
shed  upon  his  guilt,  and  in  these  tears  of  agony  and 
remorse  they  are  written  for  our  learning. 

Let  rne  offer  a  few  words,  —  a  few  words  on  that 
blood-guiltiness,  for  which  some  men,  through  David, 
assault  the  Bible. 

We  are  to  judge  David  as  we  judge  other  men,  by 
his  times  and  by  his  circumstances.  His  age  was  one 
of  rudeness  and  it  was  one  of  blood.  It  was  a  period 
when  men  got  readily  into  conflict,  and  when  conflict 
was  associated  with  little  that  was  forbearing  or  mag- 
nanimous. The  barbarian  instincts  to  contention  were 
those  which  then  were  the  most  developed.  The 
passions  which  create  war  were  ever  active  and  con- 
stantly provoked,  and  the  sentiments  which  mitigate  it 
were  but  slightly  felt.  Prowess  was  the  great  test  of 
excellence.  Might  was  the  principle  of  right.  The 
military  hero  was  "  the  highest  style  of  man."  The 
conqueror,  the  subduer,  was  the  king  of  men,  and  none 
besides  could  rule  them.  By  the  sword  dominion  was 
obtained,  and  by  the  sword  dominion  was  defended- 
David  was  certainly  a  man  of  battle,  but  what  else 
could  he  be,  and  be  a  king  in  the  period  in  which  he 
lived  ?  Shall  we  make  that  David's  sin,  which  was 
David's  fate  ?  Did  David  choose  to  be  a  king  ?  Was 
he  not  a  warrior  by  the  necessity  of  events,  rather  than 


234  SPIRITUAL   INCONGRUITIES. 

by  any  personal  contrivance  ?  Did  he  feel  no  sorrow 
for  the  evils  to  which  his  destiny  carried  him  ?  Did 
he  make  no  moans  ?  Did  he  weep  no  tears  ?  Sjurely 
he  did.  Often  was  his  heart  cast  down,  and  often  his 
rest  was  broken.  Much  he  lamented  that  he  was  a 
man  of  blood,  and  with  that  soiled  and  terrible  red 
hand  of  his,  he  would  not  venture  to  found  a  house 
for  the  worship  of  his  Maker. 

What  else  could  his  life  have  been,  but  that  of  war- 
fare ?  By  what  means  could  he  have  avoided  being, 
throughout  his  course,  a  warrior  ?  He  was  on  all  sides 
surrounded  by  enemies,  by  enemies  to  his  nation  and 
to  his  religion ;  by  enemies,  ever-watchful,  and  ever- 
cruel  —  therefore,  he  had  ever  to  fight  for  defence, 
and  victory  was  needful  to  security.  He  entered  on 
a  distracted  kingdom,  and  he  became  heir  to  unfinished 
battles.  Saul  had  ever  been  in  contention,  and  he  left 
his  successor  a  legacy  of  complicated  hostilities.  But, 
with  the  many  and  sad  sins  of  David,  there  still 
remained  in  his  nature,  much  that  was  great  and  lofty, 
a  tenderness  that  strife  could  not  wholly  destroy,  a 
piety,  sublime,  however  defaced  and  darkened,  a  sense 
of  duty,  a  spirit  of  repentance,  a  yearning  for  the  right, 
a  wisdom  prepared  for  all  emergencies,  a  dignity  which 
no  turn  of  affairs  could  degrade,  and  which  preserved 
him,  manly  and  self-sustained,  in  every  affliction  and 
every  misfortune. 


SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES.  235 

David's  career  was  splendid  and  successful.  From 
a  few  pastoral  and  agricultural  tribes,  as  I  have  already 
noticed,  he  raised  a  glorious  nation.  Its  homes  had 
multiplied,  its  stalls  were  filled  with  cattle,  its  hills  were 
covered  with  plenty,  its  borders  were  enlarged,  and 
beyond  them  it  was  respected  as  well  as  feared. 
David's  station  was  the  highest  that  earth,  affords.  He 
had  gifts  the  holiest  that  God  bestows.  Was  he 
happy  ?  Was  he  greatly  happy  ?  Was  he  even 
moderately  happy  ?  When  David  sat  upon  the  throne 
of  Israel,  when  he  lodged  in  his  house  of  cedar,  when 
his  enemies  were  subdued,  when  his  fame  was  spread 
from  Egypt  to  Lebanon,  and  from  Lebanon  to  the 
sea,  did  he  never  think  regretfully  on  the  youthful  son 
of  Jesse  ?  Did  he  never  recall,  in  melancholy  vision, 
the  green  pastures  and  the  still  waters,  where  his 
breast  was  calm,  and  where  his  step  was  free ;  where 
his  hopes  were  peaceful,  and  where  his  thoughts  were 
gay  ;  where  the  lonely  valley  listened  to  his  song,  and 
where  the  evening  breeze  carried  forth  the  music  of 
his  maiden  harp  ? 

David  was  not  a  happy  man.  Despondency  settled 
on  his  soul,  and  calamities,  treading  fast  upon  each 
other,  haunted  all  his  latter  days.  Often,  indeed,  did 
he  mingle  his  drink  with  weeping ;  often  did  he  take 
ashes  for  bread  ;  often  to  him  the  day  was  dark,  and 


236  SPIRITUAL   INCONGRUITIES. 

the  night  was  heavy ;  often  at  the  dawn  did  he  wish  for 
the  evening,  and  at  the  evening  sigh  again  for  the 
dawn.  He  is  an  example  that  no  grandeur,  no  pros- 
perity, no  impunity  from  station,  no  glory  of  command, 
no  flattery  of  obedience,  can  strips  sin  of  its  hatefulness, 
or  rob  it  of  its  sting.  He  is  an  example,  that  there  is 
a  law  more  sacred  than  the  voice  of  kings,  a  law  which 
that  voice,  terrible  as  it  sometimes  is,  cannot  subvert ; 
that  there  is  a  power  more  awful  than  human  royalty, 
which  royalty  itself  cannot  escape ;  that  such  power 
from  the  humblest  lips,  can  strike,  at  times,  the 
proudest  souls  with  terror ;  that  within  a  thousand  walls 
of  iron,  that  within  a  thousand  shields  of  adamant,  that 
within  a  thousand  ranks  of  arms,  guilty  kings  have, 
with  all  their  state,  no  shelter ;  that  God's  eye  is  on  the 
monarch  as  the  beggar ;  that  in  the  depth  of  millions 
their  transgression  can  find  them  out ;  and  that,  in  the 
stern  truth  of  God's  own  sentence,  it  can  shriek  within 
their  conscience  the  terrible  rebuke  of  divine  condem- 
nation. Nathan  said  to  David,  "  Thou  art  the  man." 
Within  David's  own  heart  there  was  a  speech  that  told 
him,  what  man  he  was.  The  earthquake  or  the 
tempest  could  not  have  drowned  the  distinctness  of  that 
stunning  voice  ;  the  jewelled  garment  of  the  prince,  the 
mailed  armor  of  the  soldier,  was  no  defence  against  the 
barbed  arrow  of  conviction  that  pierced  and  quivered 
within  the  stricken  breast. 


SPIRITUAL   INCONGRUITIES.  2«37 

David,  too,  is  an  evidence,  if  evidence  were  wanted, 
that  grandeur  is  a  poor  shelter  against  grief.  When 
shame  fell  upon  David's  house,  when  hatred  placed  one 
child  in  deadly  feud  against  another,  the  glare  of 
royalty  was  a  small  matter  in  the  sadness  of  nature. 
When,  retreating  from  the  unnatural  rebellion  of  his 
son,  the  curses  of  Shimei  fell  heavy  on  his  bended 
head,  what  was  there  in  the  name  of  king  to  meeken 
the  storm  which  beat  upon  his  anointed  person  ?  The 
fatal  mistake  is  ever  to  put  the  office  above  the  nature ; 
for  the  nature  is  changeless  and  must  triumph.  The 
office  is  for  man,  and  not  man  for  the  office ;  circum- 
stances make  the  office,  but  God  has  made  the  man. 
The  man  is,  therefore,  greater  than  king  or  than  priest. 
What  was  kingship  to  the  English  Charles,  when,  after 
arraignment  before  his  own  people,  he  clasped  his 
children  for  the  last  time  to  his  bosom,  before  his  going 
to  the  block  ?  What  was  kingship  to  the  French 
Louis,  when  he  felt  he  must  leave  his  helpless  wife  and 
orphans  to  the  mercies  of  the  mad  avengers  who  began 
in  his  own  blood  the  retaliation  for  centuries  of  suffer- 
ing, which  was  only  to  be  accomplished  in  a  wilderness 
of  death  ?  What  was  kingship  to  David,  when  his  own 
flesh  were  his  enemies?  There  is  rebellion  in  the 
land.  His  throne  totters ;  the  throne,  so  hardly  won, 
rocks  upon  its  foundation  ;  there  is  a  palsy  of  desolate 


SPIRITUAL   INCONGRUITIES. 

affliction,  that  never,  never,  never,  again,  shall  let  a 
smile  glimmer  on  his  face.  His  hoary  hairs  are  dragged 
rudely  towards  the  grave,  the  staff  of  his  earthly  hope, 
and  pride,  and  joy  is  broken ;  and  he,  crowned  as  he 
is,  falls  upon  the  bare  bosom  of  adversity,  to  endure 
its  chill,  until  he  can  endure  no  longer. 

And  who  causes  all  this?  Absalom,  the  beloved, 
Absalom,  the  beautiful !  O,  foolish  and  most  guilty 
youth,  what  a  true  and  loving  father  didst  thou  dare 
with  thy  hand  of  sacrilege,  and  thy  treachery  of  blood  ! 
Yet,  hear  how  the  heart  of  the  father  speaks  out  in 
David.  "  Deal  gently,"  he  says  to  the  commanders, 
as  they  go  out  to  battle,  "  deal  gently,  for  my  sake, 
with  the  young  man,  even  with  Absalom."  Behold 
him,  then,  when  his  crown,  his  state,  his  very  life,  is 
in  danger.  How  eagerly  he  inquires  of  those  who 
bring  tidings  from  the  field ;  how  he  catches  at  every 
gleam  of  hope  ;  how  he  watches  each  moment  for 
reports ;  and  when  the  messenger  at  last  arrives,  for 
what  does  he  inquire  ?  His  sceptre  —  his  throne  ? 
No.  Is  the  young  man  Absalom  safe  ?  This  is  his 
first,  this  is  his  special  question. 

The  young  man  Absalom  had  gone  to  his  last  ac- 
count !  What  was  the  world,  then,  to  David,  and  what 
was  all  that  the  world  contained  ?  What,  then,  were 
thrones  or  dominions,  or  principalities  or  powers  ?  The 


SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES.  239 

spirit  of  the  man,  the  spirit  of  the  father,  was  greater 
than  all.  Officials  murmured  and  rebuked  ;  but  what 
were  their  murmurs  and  rebukes  to  his  torn  and 
broken  heart  ?  Unheeding  these  ungenial  words,  "  he 
went  up  to  the  chamber  over  the  gate,  and  wept ;  and 
as  he  went,  he  said, —  O,  my  son,  Absalom,  my  son, 
my  son  !  would  God,  I  had  died  for  thee,  my  son,  my 
son ! " 

I  have  spoken  of  David  as  I  proposed,  as  one  within 
the  circle  of  our  imperfect  humanity,  and  I  have  spoken 
of  him  in  the  spirit  of  humanity.  In  this  spirit  I  view 
in  him  an  incarnation  of  its  capacities,  and  an  example 
of  its  weakness.  In  this  spirit,  I  cannot  think  of  him 
otherwise  than  in  solemn  reverence  and  solemn  sor- 
row. With  this  solemn  sorrow  and  solemn  reverence, 
I  contemplate  his  mighty  mind  ;  with  reverence  I  see 
its  grandeur ;  with  sorrow  I  behold  its  fall  from  that 
grandeur,  to  wilder  itself  in  madness,  or  to  lose  itself 
in  folly.  So  likewise  I  contemplate  his  courageous  and 
capacious  heart,  so  bold  and  yet  so  gentle,  so  made  for 
truth  and  love,  so  fraught  with  sublime  emotion  and 
humble  piety,  transformed  to  a  chaos  of  passion,  con- 
vulsed to  a  volcano  of  impure  and  unholy  desires. 
With  awe  I  gaze  on  his  superhuman  imagination ; 
with  rapture  I  hear  his  heaven-born  utterance.  With 
equal  awe  I  behold  him  in  his  fearful  trials,  his  said 


240  SPIRITUAL   INCONGRUITIES. 

temptations,  his  unwonted  sorrows,  in  the  miseries  of 
his  sin,  in  the  miseries  of  his  remorse.  I  learn  how 
strength  may  work  for  wretchedness,  how  privileges 
may  turn  to  penalties.  Looking  upon  David  compre- 
hensively, in  his  greatness,  in  his  abasement,  in  repen- 
tance, in  his  guilt,  in  his  aspiration,  in  his  affliction,  I 
am  reminded  of  his  own  words,  suggested  doubtless 
by  his  own  experience  —  "  Verily,  every  man  at  his 
best  estate  is  altogether  vanity  !  " 

David  has  been  by  many  considered  a  type  of  Christ. 
This  is  a  bold  use  of  allegorical  interpretation  :  for  if 
there  are  some  external  analogies,  there  is  a  complete 
spiritual  contrast.  Christ  was  of  David's  tribe  —  but 
surely  was  not  of  David's  mind.  David  was  a  king  — 
Christ  also  was  a  king.  But  Christ  was  not  a  king  by 
the  sword,  by  conquest,  or  in  outward  state.  Christ 
was  not  a  king  by  coercing  men,  but  by  attracting 
them  ;  he  was  not  a  king  by  resistance,  but  by  en- 
durance. His  sway  was  over  the  soul,  and  by  love 
and  not  by  fear ;  it  was  inward  —  it  was  of  heaven  ; 
it  ruled  the  highest  thoughts,  and  it  promised  nothing, 
and  it  gave  nothing  to  the  lower  passions.  David  was 
a  prophet ;  but  too  frequently  the  lips  touched  with  the 
fire  of  the  sanctuary,  were  moved  with  the  fury  of  the 
camp  ;  too  frequently  David's  sojourn  was  in  Mesech, 
and  his  dwelling  in  the  tents  of  Kedar.  Christ  was  a 


SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES.  24  1 

prophet,  more  divinely  called.  He  was  a  prophet  of 
perfect  peace  ;  grace  and  mercy  the  mission  of  his 
life,  they  were  the  testament  of  his  death.  He  walked 
over  earth  in  meekness  ;  being  reviled,  he  reviled  not 
again,  but  committed  himself  to  God,  who  judgeth 
righteously.  Not  breaking  the  bruised  reed,  nor 
quenching  the  smoking  flax,  surrounded  by  malice 
and  by  madness,  he  passed  through  suffering  on  to 
victory. 

David  was  a  monarch,  and  a  hero  ;  and  some  who 
called  Christ  the  son  of  David,  would  have  made  him, 
too,  a  monarch  and  a  hero.  Little  did  they  know  of 
Christ's  kingdom,  little  could  they  understand  of  his 
heroism.  Nothing  wist  they  of  that  reign,  which  com- 
menced when  it  seemed  to  close ;  a  reign  destined  to 
be  of  wider  space  than  that  which  the  sun  enlightens, 
and  to  live  with  the  everlasting  soul  when  many  suns 
shall  quench  with  age.  Little  did  they  think,  that,  in 
dark  Gethsemane,  in  the  torture  of  bloody  sweat,  a 
glory  was  born  which  could  never  die  ;  that  a  traitor- 
kiss  saluted  the  sublimest  of  sovereigns ;  that  a  rabble 
shout,  meant  in  mockery,  proclaimed  the  most  lasting 
of  dominions  ;  that  a  wreath  of  thorns  was  a  crown 
more  unfading  than  a  diadem,  in  which  every  nation 
had  planted  a  jewel ;  that  a  cross,  whereon  a  harassed 

soul  lingered  slowly  to  immortality,  was  a  throne  of 
16 


242  SPIRITUAL   INCONGRUITIES. 

loftier  majesty  than  that  which  David  founded,  and 
than  that  which  Solomon  ascended. 

David  was  a  man  of  action,  and  a  man  of  thought. 
Great  he  was  as  either,  but  far  greater  he  was  as  the 
latter  than  the  former.  As  a  man  of  action,  he  be- 
longed to  his  own  age ;  as  a  man  of  thought,  he  is 
for  all  ages.  As  a  man  of  action,  he  was  for  the 
Jewish  people  ;  as  a  man  of  thought,  he  is  for  the 
entire  church,  for  the  church  enduring  and  universal. 
Of  that  church  he  has  continued  to  be  the  deathless 
lyrist.  David,  of  the  throne,  we  cannot  always  recall 
with  pleasure.  David,  of  the  psalms,  we  never  would 
forget.  David,  of  the  psalms,  the  heart  of  Christendom 
cherishes,  and  will  cherish  always.  The  psalms  are 
an  everlasting  manual  to  the  soul ;  the  book  of  its  im- 
mortal wishes,  its  troubles,  its  aspirations,  and  its  hopes  : 
sung  in  every  tongue,  and  in  every  age  ;  destined  to 
endure,  while  the  universe  of  God  has  light,  harmony, 
or  grandeur,  while  man  has  religion  or  sensibility, 
while  language  has  sublimity  or  sweetness. 

Amongst  all  compositions,  these  alone  deserve  the 
name  of  sacred  lyrics.  These  alone  contain  a  poetry 
that  meets  the  spiritual  nature  in  all  its  moods  and  in 
all  its  wants,  which  strengthens  virtue  with  glorious 
exhortations,  gives  angelic  eloquence  to  prayer,  and 
almost  rises  to  the  seraph's  joy  in  praise.  In  distress 


SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES.  243 

and  fear,  they  breathe  the  low,  sad  murmur  of  com- 
plaint ;  in  penitence,  they  groan  with  the  agony  of  the 
troubled  soul.  They  have  a  gentle  music  for  the  peace 
of  faith  ;  in  adoration,  they  ascend  to  the  glory  of 
creation,  and  the  majesty  of  God.  For  assemblies  or 
for  solitude,  for  all  that  gladdens  and  all  that  grieves, 
for  our  heaviness  and  despair,  for  our  remorse  and  our 
redemption,  we  find  in  these  divine  harmonies  the  loud 
or  the  low  expression.  Great  has  been  their  power  in 
the  world.  They  resounded  amidst  the  courts  of  the 
tabernacle  ;  they  floated  through  the  lofty  and  sol- 
emn spaces  of  the  temple.  They  'were  sung  with 
glory  in  the  halls  of  Zion  ;  they  were  sung  with  sor- 
row by  the  streams  of  Babel.  And  when  Israel  had 
passed  away,  the  harp  of  David  was  still  awakened 
in  the  church  of  Christ.  In  all  the  eras  and  ages  of 
that  church,  from  the  hymn  which  first  it  whispered 
in  an  upper  chamber,  until  its  anthems  filled  the  earth, 
the  inspiration  of  the  royal  prophet  has  enraptured  its 
devotions,  and  ennobled  its  rituals. 

Arid  thus  it  has  been,  not  alone,  in  the  august  cathe- 
dral or  the  rustic  chapel.  Chorused  by  the  winds  of 
heaven,  they  have  swelled  through  God's  own  temple 
of  the  sky  and  stars  ;  they  have  rolled  over  the  broad 
desert  of  Asia,  in  the  matins  and  vespers  of  ten  thou- 
sand hermits.  They  have  rung  through  the  deep 


244  SPIRITUAL    INCONGRUITIES. 

valleys  of  the  Alps,  in  the  sobbing  voices  of  the  forlorn 
Waldenses  ;  through  the  steeps  and  caves  of  Scottish 
highlands,  in  the  rude  chauntings  of  the  Scottish  cove- 
nanters ;  through  the  woods  and  wilds  of  primitive 
America,  in  the  heroic  hallelujahs  of  the  early  pil- 
grims. 

Nor  is  it  in  the  congregation,  alone,  that  David  has 
given  to  the  religious  heart  a  voice.  He  has  given  an 
utterance,  also,  for  its  privacy, —  for  the  low-lying  in- 
valid, —  soothing  the  dreariness  of  pain,  softening  the 
monotony  of  heavy  time,  supplying  the  prayer  or  the 
promise,  with  which  to  break  the  midnight  or  the 
sleepless  hour  :  for  the  unhappy,  to  give  them  words 
of  sadness,  by  which  to  relieve  their  disquieted  and 
their  cast-down  souls  ;  by  which  to  murmur  between 
themselves  and  God,  the  holy  sorrow,  that  heaven 
alone  should  hear :  for  the  penitent,  when  the  arrows 
of  conviction  rankle  in  his  breast,  when  the  light  of 
grace  would  seem  departed,  and  the  ear  of  mercy 
closed, —  then  David  gives  the  cry  of  his  own  im- 
passioned deprecation,  in  supplication  and  confession. 
And  when  contrition  has  found  repose,  and  the  tempest 
of  lamentation  been  stilled  by  the  assurance  of  peace, 
he  gives  the  hymn  of  his  exultant  and  of  his  grateful 
praise. 


THE   WEARINESS    OF   LIFE. 


IT   IS   BETTER    FOR    ME   TO    DIE   THAN   TO    LIVE. 

THIS  was  the  desire  of  Jonah,  when  the  Lord  smote 
his  gourd  so  that  it  died.  In  the  disappointment  of  his 
soul  he  wept  over  it,  and  in  the  trouble  of  his  spirit 
his  prayer  was  for  death.  It  is  so  with  not  a  few  self- 
ish people.  They  can  bear  well  the  calamities  that  lay 
others  low,  even  those  that  spread  waste  and  death  over 
nations  ;  but  let  sorrow  come  near  themselves,  let  it 
blight  but  a  single  joy  in  their  home,  touch  any  thing 
that  is  theirs,  and  they  are  overwhelmed.  They  seem 
to  feel,  to  think,  and  to  act,  as  if  all  the  agencies  of  life 
and  Providence  are  in  motion  but  for  them  ;  and  as  if 
all  were  out  of  order  when  they  suffer  inconvenience, 
and  all  rightly  going  on  when  they  are  in  comfort. 

This  estimate  of  ill-being,  or  well-being,  in  its  rela- 
tion to  self,  has  always  appeared  to  me  extremely  low  ; 
and  yet  it  often  takes  a  religious  form  of  expression. 
Why  should  we  thank  God  in  phrases  which  imply  that 


246  THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

we  have  been  measuring  our  own  privileges  with  our 
fellow-creatures'  disadvantages  ?  That  is  not  the  tone 
in  which  to  bless  that  God  who  is  an  impartial  and  an 
equal  Father,  who  causes  his  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil  and 
the  good,  and  sendeth  his  rain  on  the  just  and  on  the 
unjust.  And  why,  also,  should  we  regard  calamities  in 
any  way  peculiar  or  severe,  because  they  come  near 
to  us  1  It  is  natural,  indeed,  that  we  should  feel  them 
more,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  we  should  ever  ascribe 
to  them  any  other  than  their  common  character.  But 
this  distinction  you  will  ever  observe  through  life,  —  the 
selfish  make  little  of  the  sufferings  which  their  neigh- 
bors have  to  bear,  however  great,  while  they  are  loud 
about  their  own,  however  small.  This  other  distinction 
you  will  equally  observe,  —  the  sufferings  of  the  selfish 
render  them  more  selfish  ;  the  sufferings  of  the  gen- 
erous make  them  more  generous.  The  one  class,  under 
trials,  become  harder,  and  the  other  more  impressible 
and  affectionate.  There  are,  however,  many  instances 
in  which  the  weariness  of  Jonah  may  fall  upon  the 
spirit  without  his  bitterness,  and  without  his  misanthro- 
py. Many  a  one,  with  a  sincerer  despondency,  is 
ready  to  exclaim  with  him,  "  It  is  better  for  me  to  die 
than  to  live." 

How  often  is  this  the  sentiment  under  severe  physi- 
cal pain,  whether  it  is  uttered  or  concealed  ?     It  is  an 


THE    WEARINESS    OF    LIFE.  247 

awful  test  of  resignation  to  have  the  whole  frame  shat- 
tered and  disorganized ;  the  head  throbbing  on  the 
burning  pillow,  and  a  crushing  load  heavy  on  the  heart ; 
thoughts  dancing  giddily  in  the  brain,  and  chaotic  col- 
oring disturbing  the  imagination ;  with  no  rest  during 
the  lingering  and  languid  night,  and  no  relief  with  the 
morning  sun.  How  natural  it  is,  in  the  tossings  of  con- 
vulsive irritation,  to  fix  the  mind  upon  the  quiet  grave ! 
When  some  sailor  has  been  whirled  long  upon  the 
storm,  rolling  in  gloom  and  hurricanes  amidst  ocean 
billows,  working  and  watching  until  nature  fails,  how 
does  he  not  yearn  for  some  sheltered  nook  on  shore, 
where,  fearless  of  the  tempest,  he  may  lay  him  down  to 
rest,  and  find  whereon  to  place  his  weary  head,  and 
sleep?  With  as  strong  a  desire,  many  a  tired  sufferer 
exclaims  with  Jonah,  "  It  is  better  for  me  to  die  than  to 
live." 

It  is  very  affecting  when  such  experience  enters  the 
mind  while  existence  is  yet  new.  In  truth,  it  is  a  sen- 
timent that  is  rarely  felt  by  the  aged.  Life  seems  to 
become  more  precious  as  it  becomes  later :  as  in  the 
case  of  the  Sybil's  leaves,  the  less  of  it  that  remains, 
the  more  it  grows  in  value.  With  some,  this  may  be 
from  habit,  with  others,  it  is  from  feeling ;  but  whether 
from  habit  or  feeling,  it  is  good  evidence  that  life  has 
been,  on  the  whole,  desirable.  The  longer  we  stay  in 


248  THE    WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

it,  the  greater  the  tenacity  with  which  we  cling  to  it. 
That  it  should  be  so,  is  in  the  order  of  causes.  While 
we  are  young,  we  are  more  a  part  of  the  world  than 
observers  of  it.  The  living  life  about  us  swallows  up 
our  life  ;  and  the  outward  creation  is  incorporated  with 
both  our  own  life  and  the  general  life.  The  blood  is 
quick  and  the  brain  busy,  and  with  the  actions  of  these 
all  other  motions  and  objects  are  confounded,  and  we 
do  not  so  much  contemplate  as  live  them. 

But,  as  the  sense  of  being  grows  in  calmness,  we 
put  society  and  nature  distinctly  out  before  us,  and  our 
interest  in  both  we  only  begin  to  understand  when 
we  look  at  them  from  a  point  of  rest.  The  feeling 
is  a  simple  one,  and  we  often  have  feelings  like  it. 
Returning,  at  the  close  of  a  fine  autumn  day,  from  a 
pedestrian  excursion  among  the  hills,  some  few  will, 
at  times,  get  on  before  the  party  ;  they  sit  down  on 
a  rising  ground,  dwell  silently  on  the  declining  light, 
turn  their  thoughts  on  the  events  and  scenes  which 
they  passed  through  in  excitement,  watch  the  strag- 
glers that  follow,  and  exchange  words  of  friendly 
reminiscence  with  the  companions  that  are  about  them. 
Thus  the  aged  stop  as  they  cross  the  summit  of  life, 
and  mark  on  the  border  of  the  dark  valley  the  line 
of  light,  take  more  notice  of  the  region  in  which  they 
have  been  breathing,  review  the  incidents,  activities, 


THE    WEARINESS    OF    LIFE.  249 

and  spaces  through  which  they  have  travelled,  and 
find  that  much  there  was  which  it  was  pleasant  to 
have  known,  and  that  much  there  still  remains  which  it 
is  painful  to  leave.  The  world  seems  to  be  more  hos- 
pitable as  we  prepare  to  quit  it ;  it  is  like  departing 
from  our  native  land.  Other  climes  may  be  brighter, 
more  fertile,  more  lovely,  more  wise,  more  free,  in 
every  way  more  goodly,  but  our  native  land  none  of 
them  can  be.  They  cannot  give  us  mother  memories, 
they  cannot  give  us  back  our  youth,  or  the  dreams  of 
our  youth.  No ;  the  land  that  opens  for  us  a  grave, 
can  never  be  to  us  as  the  land  that  supported  for  us  a 
a  cradle. 

Not  unlike  are  the  feelings  with  which  this  near  cre- 
ation acts  on  us,  as  life  advances.  We  are  used  to 
these  skies,  and  clouds,  and  lights.  The  sun  is  our 
pleasant  acquaintance  ;  the  moon  we  have  never  ceased 
to  love  ;  we  count  the  stars,  and  call  them  by  their 
names.  Seas,  rivers,  continents,  climates,  we  come  to 
be  familiar  with  in  our  journeyings  ;  but  they  were  the 
studies  also  of  our  school-day  hours.  We  have  watched 
and  waited  for  each  season  ;  had  for  each  our  tempers, 
our  feelings,  and  our  toils,  and  after  each  our  memories 
and  impressions.  No  ;  earth  is  not  ungentle  or  un- 
gracious ;  and  every  honest  heart  must  feel  a  pang  to 
depart  from  it.  It  is  a  home ;  we  are  used  to  it ;  it  has 


THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

the  trees  that  we  delight  in  ;  the  flowers  that  we  love  ; 
the  people  that  we  know  ;  and  the  roof  over  it,  the 
kindly  and  familiar  heavens.  Other  spheres  of  the 
universe  may  be  grander,  more  glorious,  more  blessed, 
more  beautiful ;  but  this  is  our  native  planet,  its  atmos- 
phere the  breath  of  our  lives,  its  objects  the  images  of 
our  thoughts  ;  dear  to  us  by  all  that  is  sacred  in  re- 
membrance or  in  affection.  These  are  human  emo- 
tions, and  he  who  formed  the  human  heart  will  not 
account  them  guilty. 

But,  if  the  love  of  life  is  stronger  in  age,  the  con- 
sciousness of  life  is  stronger  in  youth.  This  very 
strength  of  consciousness  may,  and  sometimes  does, 
turn  into  a  disgust  of  life.  Having  not  deeply  entered 
into  the  moral  purposes  of  life,  any  thing  which  cuts  off 
the  young  from  its  sparkling  felicities,  cleaves  them 
almost  to  despair.  When  confinement  or  solitude  be- 
comes the  lot  of  those  whose  joy  is  in  action  and  a 
throng,  in  the  freedom  of  God's  works  and  seasons, 
there  seems  no  more  on  earth  for  them  to  hope.  When 
youth  is  crushed  by  misfortune  or  disease,  it  is  then, 
of  all  times,  that  prolonged  life  would  be  regarded  as 
most  dreary.  The  tenderness  of  friends  may  have  a 
genial  influence ;  youthful  piety  may  teach  a  quiet 
resignation ;  the  first  harassing  trials  once  over,  a 
solemn  thoughtfulness,  a  holy  elevation  of  soul  may 


THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE.  251 

come,  and   often  it   does  come,  and  beam   upon   the 
young  brow  like  the  rays  of  a  celestial  glory. 

It  is  a  fine  thing  to  see  a  young  man  in  the  noon  of 
his  strength;  it  is  a  lovely  sight  to  behold  a  young 
maiden  in  the  glow  of  her  beauty ;  but  it  is  finer  to  see 
a  young  man  bear  lingering  disease  with  a  meek  and 
uncomplaining  heroism  ;  and  to  behold  a  young  maiden 
fading  with  saintly  trust  out  of  earth  and  into  heaven,  is 
a  far  lovelier  sight  than  her  beauty  in  its  freshest  bloom. 
But  sometimes  youth  has  no  wise  goodness  at  hand  to 
instruct  it ;  no  vigilant  tenderness  around  to  solace,  to 
cherish  it ;  no  loving  consolation  to  speak  to  it  in 
gracious  words  ;  no  piety  in  itself  to  give  it  support  and 
strength  ;  and  then  poor  nature  has  only  weariness  and 
discontent.  Whither  shall  it  turn,  frail  and  exhausted 
heart  ?  Crushed  and  clouded,  in  what  shall  it  find 
rest?  Where  shall  it  seek  for  light?  The  dreams  of 
earth  have  melted,  the  hopes  of  earth  are  gone  ;  it  has 
nothing  before  it,  like  the  prophet,  but  the  ashes  of  its 
gourd.  The  things  that  blossomed  with  luxuriance,  the 
things  that  promised  a  rich  fruition,  had  a  worm  in  the 
core,  and  they  begin  to  wither  ere  the  sun  has  well 
risen.  What  is  for  the  stricken  heart  ?  Nothing  be- 
neath the  skies ;  it  must  look  up  beyond  them  from 
the  dust,  and  find  its  treasures  where  the  moth  doth  not 
corrupt. 


252  THE  WEARINESS    OF   LIFE. 

A  man  may  see  his  fortune  moulder,  and  this  is  not 
without  sore  affliction.  In  our  condition  of  society,  say 
what  we  may,  poverty  is  not  only  a  misfortune,  it  is  a 
heavy  disadvantage.  It  requires  a  stout  heart  to  bear 
it  manfully ;  it  requires  a  believing  heart  to  bear  it 
meekly.  And  many  a  one  could  bear  it  both  manfully 
and  meekly,  if  he  had  only  to  bear  it  alone.  But  this 
is  rarely  the  case.  Sorrows  do  not  come  alone  to  a 
man  ;  and  a  man  seldom  comes  alone  to  sorrow.  To 
the  utmost  verge  of  the  space  a  man  occupies  in  life, 
his  adversity  will  surround  him  with  fellow-sufferers; 
and  there  will  be  those  who  press  near  to  his  heart, 
and  whose  silent  looks  are  worse  to  him  than  tortures. 
That  philosophy  of  Satan  in  the  Book  of  Job  is  not 
true,  when  he  says,  "  All  that  a  man  hath  will  he  give 
for  his  life."  On  the  contrary,  a  man  would  often  give 
his  life  first  of  all,  sooner  than  some  that  he  holds 
precious  should  bear  things  that  are  hard  and  grievous 
to  be  borne.  When  a  man  beholds  the  fabric  of  his 
exertions  levelled,  in  which  he  had  treasured  many  ex- 
pectations, in  which  he  had  garnered  up  his  hopes ; 
when  he  sees  provisions  for  his  family  gone,  and  noth- 
ing but  destitution  awaiting  those  for  whose  sake  he 
labored  early,  and  late  took  rest,  those  who  hung  on 
him  in  infancy  and  looked  to  him  in  youth  ;  when  he 
foresees  year  after  year  coming  with  increased  difficul- 


THE  WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

ties,  —  however  the  happy  may  wonder,  however  the 
wise  may  rebuke,  however  religion  may  forbid  it,  or 
virtue  overcome  it,  —  the  prophet's  wish  will  sometimes 
rise  in  his  breast,  and  tremble  on  his  lips  —  "  It  is  better 
for  me  to  die  than  to  live." 

But  this  is  not  the  worst.  The  loss  of  this  world's 
good  may  doubtless  fall  heavy  on  the  spirit,  but  the 
wound,  though  deep,  is  seldom  incurable.  For  a  while, 
the  mind  may  be  uneasy  in  its  change  of  position ;  but 
it  will,  at  last,  adjust  itself  to  circumstances.  There  is 
a  worm  more  destructive  than  that  which  consumes  our 
health  or  property.  It  is  the  worm  of  insatiable  pas- 
sion. This  turns  life  into  an .  irritable,  discontented 
dream,  with  waking  starts  of  more  than  ordinary  loath- 
ing, in  which  the  desire  often  obtrudes  on  the  sickened 
mind,  to  be  well  rid  of  such  an  existence.  The  poor 
and  the  laborious  have  no  such  temptations ;  they  have 
no  time  for  such  fancies  ;  and  it  may  justly  content  men 
with  the  common  ways  of  common  life,  if  their  obscuri- 
ty gives  them  shelter  from  such  hallucinations. 

Desire  that  once  passes  the  moderation  of  nature,  is 
disease  ;  it  is  worse  than  any  ordinary  illness,  because 
it  is  in  the  mind.  It  becomes  an  inward  and  rooted 
malady.  A  man  is  thus  a  victim  to  his  own  best  ad- 
vantages. His  intellect,  active  only  for  transient  sen- 
sations, finds  stability  in  nothing,  because  his  interest 


251  THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

is  in  nothing  which  has  truth  or  stability.  He  may  not 
want  appreciation  for  the  excellent  in  man  or  nature  ; 
but  it  is  surrounded  by  such  an  atmosphere  of  false 
sentiment,  that  all  its  simplicity  is  lost  in  distortion  and 
exaggeration.  His  fancies  are  perversions  ;  and,  there- 
fore, as  the  healthy  realities  of  creation  and  society  are 
in  necessary  opposition  to  his  fancies,  creation  and 
society  have  nothing  for  him  in  their  orderly  opera- 
tions but  annoyances  and  disappointments.  Calm  pleas- 
ures he  cannot  even  feel,  and  to  his  languid  sensibilities 
they  have  no  pungency.  Common  virtues  are  to  his 
stimulated  imagination  only  dull  proprieties,  things 
that  only  befit  the  unideal,  but  which  have  no  grandeur 
for  souls  that  have  capacity  for  more  lofty  soaring. 
Quiet  feelings  of  esteem,  that  seek  not  for  fine  words, 
but  content  themselves  with  kindly  deeds ;  friendship, 
that  assumes  not  to  be  either  poetic  or  impassioned,  but 
that  is  satisfied  to  show  itself  in  homely  fidelity,  in  un- 
adorned loyalty,  and  in  that  prosaic  constancy  which 
holds  closely  to  the  object  of  esteem  when  many  very 
eloquent  in  fine  speech  think  it  prudent  to  retire,  can- 
not allay  the  cravings  of  his  enthusiasm.  Regular 
pursuits  are  odious  ;  and  thus,  between  the  dissatisfac- 
tion with  what  he  has  had,  and  the  despair  for  what  he 
would  have  but  cannot,  life  is  a  suspense  or  a  torment. 
But  many,  whose  circumstances  and  constitution 


THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE.  255 

place  them  much  nearer  to  nature,  are  not  always 
wholly  saved  from  this  temper.  With  all  that  is  sub- 
stantially needful  for  a  good  and  enjoyable  life,  they  be- 
come weary,  and  sullen,  and  fret,  and  make  others  and 
themselves  most  unhappy  ;  they  are  not  content,  because 
their  wishes  are  not  sound.  Those  are  constantly  in 
the  world  who  seek  only  pleasure,  and  who  obtain  all  of 
it  that  the  world  can  bestow ;  who  have  it  in  abundant 
fullness,  and  with  all  its  fascinations  and  refinements. 
Yet,  what  have  they  at  last,  and  what  is  their  end  ? 
The  close  of  no  other  kind  of  life  admits  of  fewer  con- 
solations. When  the  lights  seem  to  burn  over  habitual 
festivities  with  a  paler  glow,  and  the  music  is  fainter  on 
the  ear,  that  has  long  been  dead  upon  the  heart ;  when 
the  beauty  and  strength,  which  had  once  such  power, 
have  given  place  to  infirmity  and  neglect ;  when  the 
love  of  perishable  things  still  continues  in  its  strength, 
though  the  interest  of  possession  is  gone  forever ;  ele- 
gant and  antiquated  Epicureans  are  chillingly  com- 
pelled to  retire  from  the  scene  of  their  gaiety  and  their 
worthlessness.  What  must  life  be  to  them  after  ?  What 
can  the  life  be  which  has  neither  conscience  nor  memo- 
ry to  cheer  it ;  nor  charities  to  bless  it,  nor  usefulness  to 
entitle  it  to  look  for  gratitude  or  regret  ?  All  they  ever 
lived  for,  is  past ;  all  they  ever  lived  for,  was  earthly ; 
all  they  ever  lived  for,  was  selfish ;  and  all  they  ever 


256  THE    WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

lived  for,  they  see  before  them  withered.  Why  should 
they  not  wish  to  die  ?  Why  !  but  for  the  fear  of  judg- 
ment ! 

I  can  well  conceive,  however,  of  one  to  whom  life  is 
worn  out,  and  whose  wish  to  leave  it  we  can  scarcely 
censure.  It  is  one  who  has  survived  his  kindred  and 
his  companions,  and  remains  alone  in  the  desert  of 
adversity  and  the  world.  When  those  are  gone,  who 
would  have  been  a  refuge  to  him  in  the  heat  or  in  the 
storm ;  when  those  are  gone,  in  whom  he  had  treasured 
up  the  golden  drops  of  life  ;  what  can  he  else  do  than 
pray,  and  wish,  and  sigh  to  be  where  his  treasures  are  ? 
A  man  who  has  grown  hoary  amidst  the  graves  of  his 
children,  who  is  left  behind  by  departed  generations, 
and  is  unknown  to  living  ones,  who  has  a  home  no 
longer  here,  may  well,  without  rebuke,  use  the  words 
of  Jonah,  and  say,  "  It  is  better  for  me  to  die  than  to 
live."  And  even  though  his  character  may  not  have 
been  what  the  good  approve,  he  has  still  our  sympathy  ; 
and  if  years  have  brought  him  to  solitude  but  not  to 
peace,  he  needs  it  all  the  more. 

Many  that  are  scorned  elsewhere,  have  an  asylum 
from  contempt  among  their  kindred.  When  the  prodi- 
gal, after  all  his  sin,  thought  on  some  spot  for  rest,  he 
looked  toward  his  father's  house ;  and  it  was  a  father's 
tears  that  first  fell  upon  his  neck  ;  it  was  a  father's  kiss 


THE    WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

that  first  burned  on  his  cheek.  There  are  those,  too, 
who  lose  all  graces  but  this  one  which  binds  them  to 
their  kindred,  and  this  is  almost  the  single  tie  which 
binds  them  to  their  race.  Our  Lord  represents  the 
miserable  Dives  as  lifting  up  his  eyes  in  hell,  and  be- 
seeching father  Abraham  that  Lazarus  may  be  allowed 
to  go  and  admonish  his  brethren, "  lest  they  also  should 
come  into  his  place  of  torment."  What  a  joyless  exile 
earth  would  be  to  many  of  us,  if  we  had  not  affectionate 
associations  to  bind  us  still  to  hope  ?  And  how  often 
should  our  hope  fail,  if  we  did  not  think  that  some  were 
near  who  would  judge  us  more  kindly  than  the  stran- 
ger, ay,  or  even  more  kindly  than  we  judge  ourselves  ? 
How  barren  should  existence  have  been,  unless  it  con- 
tained some  sanctuary,  in  which  the  worst  could  know 
that  once  there,  he  was  in  security  and  love  ! 

And  thus  it  is  with  numbers  among  the  people  of 
earth.  They  are  nothing,  or  worse  than  nothing,  to 
those  who  have  only  remotely  seen  them ;  and  yet 
every  thing  to  those  who  have  lived  near  them  and  with 
them.  The  good,  even  though  alone,  will  yet  find 
many  to  shelter  and  to  love  them.  But  what  must  he 
feel  who  is  desolate  and  unhonored,  in  sorrow  and  de- 
cay, without  companion  or  comfort  in  his  descent  to  the 
valley  of  the  grave  !  What  must  he  feel  in  sad  retire- 
ment, where  he  may  hide  his  ruin,  but  cannot  efface  his 
17 


THE  WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

memories  !  What  must  he  feel  who,  as  death  and  mis- 
ery are  crushing  him,  looks  about  for  those  that  were 
true  to  him  in  all  his  follies  and  his  frailties,  but  has 
none  of  those  to  meet  his  eye,  —  on  whom  he  passion- 
ately calls,  but  calls  in  vain,  to  come  once  more  and 
soothe  his  latest  and  his  deserted  hour  ! 

Much  of  dissatisfaction  with  life  arises  from  a  doubly 
false  estimate  of  life.  We  underrate  our  own  position 
in  it ;  we  overrate  the  positions  of  others.  Out  of  this 
doubly  false  estimate  spring  correspondent  false  con- 
trasts and  desires.  The  man  of  bodily  labor,  longs  for 
mental  labor ;  and,  contrasted  with  his  own  condition, 
he  thinks  it  one  of  perfect  ease.  And  yet,  with  this 
wish  much  is  often  connected  that  is  strange  and  in- 
consistent. You  will  sometimes  hear  a  man  whose  toil 
is  physical,  expatiate,  with  emphasis,  upon  the  compara- 
tive idleness  which  the  man  enjoys  whose  avocation  is 
intellectual.  Yet  the  man  who  thus  expatiates  on  the 
scholar's  indolence,  finds  it  a  painful  task  to  write  a 
simple  letter  on  the  plainest  incidents  of  domestic  his- 
tory ;  not  because  he  wants  ability  or  intelligence,  but 
because  the  use  of  his  mind  in  this  way  is  unfamiliar  to 
him. 

The  fact  is,  the  scholar  would  have  as  much  reason 
to  dwell  on  the  ease  of  the  farmer,  as  the  farmer  on  the 
ease  of  the  scholar;  anrl  «o  he  constantly  does,  and 


THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 


with  just  as  much  of  falsehood.  The  scholar  contrasts 
his  position  falsely  with  the  farmer's  by  looking  from  his 
own  confinement  to  the  farmer's  exercise.  The  farmer 
contrasts  his  position  falsely  with  that  of  the  scholar,  by 
looking  from  his  own  muscular  exertion  to  the  scholar's 
muscular  repose.  But  he  heeds  not  the  paleness  of 
the  student's  cheek,  or  the  glisten  of  his  eye,  which 
shows  that  his  retreat  has  been  no  fair  Elysian  bower. 
He  heeds  not  the  anxieties,  the  fears,  the  leaden  hours 
of  prolonged  exertion  which  the  library  door  shuts  in. 
The  man  of  private  life  desires  the  distinctions  of  public 
office  ;  but  he  thinks  of  its  power,  separate  from  its  toils  ; 
of  its  splendor,  separate  from  its  dangers  ;  of  the  glory 
of  success,  separate  from  the  shame  of  defeat ;  and  of 
the  brilliancy  of  its  outward  show,  separate  from  the 
gnawings  of  its  concealed  vexations.  He  sees  not  these 
agitated  hours  that  are  hidden  from  the  world  ;  and  he 
feels  not  these  troubles  that,  though  never  uttered, 
cause  the  sick  heart  to  heave  with  uneasy  palpitations. 
He  does  not  consider  that  to  widen  a  man's  relations  is 
frequently  to  multiply  his  enemies  ;  that  to  place  him  in 
a  state  which  many  desire  to  obtain,  is  to  place  him  in  a 
position  which  many  will  endeavor  to  embarrass,  which 
many  will  endeavor  to  render  miserable ;  that  it  is  to 
place  him  in  a  position  exposed  to  envy,  jealousy,  mis- 
representation, and  strife  ;  and  that  all  the  torments  will 


THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

haunt  it  which  it  is  in  the  power  of  ambitious  rivalry  or 
disappointed  competition  to  invoke. 

These  things,  I  am  aware,  have  been  said  thousands 
of  times  before,  they  will  be  said  thousands  of  times 
again ;  for  though  life  changes  in  many  things  as  man 
grows  older  in  history,  yet,  in  many  things,  life  is  but 
the  repetition  of  itself.  These  things,  it  may  be  said,  are 
truisms,  an  old  story  ;  and  so  they  are  ;  but  life  also  is  a 
truism,  an  old  story.  The  statement  of  these  mistakes 
is  old,  but  they  are  in  individuals  the  occasions  of  a  prac- 
tical waste  of  life  that  is  ever  varied,  and  is  ever  new. 
By  underrating,  for  instance,  our  own  position,  we  want 
that  spring  of  hope  which  is  the  inspiration  of  success, 
and  we  work  in  it  with  feeble  and  despondent  souls. 
We  never  come  to  understand  the  resources  it  con- 
tained, and  therefore  we  never  draw  out  from  them  the 
riches  which  they  might  have  yielded.  By  over-rating 
the  position  that  is  not  ours,  our  thoughts  are  divided, 
and  our  efforts  are  unsteady.  We  do  not  labor  with  all 
our  heart  and  strength  in  our  assigned  vocation ;  and 
frequently  we  are  induced  to  leave  it,  to  lose  all  the 
power  which  we  expended  in  it,  to  begin  awkwardly  in 
a  new  direction,  to  compete  with  rivalry  in  ways  for 
which  we  were  not  trained  ;  and  thus,  doubly  wasted, 
doubly  impoverished,  we  fail  of  all,  and,  in  the  end, 
grumble  with  our  lot,  and  quarrel  with  our  life. 


THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE.  261 

And  here,  again,  I  will  venture  another  common- 
place, one  as  old  as  moral  thought,  as  old  as  moral 
speech.  Take  a  certain  level  of  comfortable  existence 
to  begin  with,  and  life  from  that  is  equal  in  all  essen- 
tials. All  poetry,  song,  drama,  fiction,  and  religion, 
imply  this.  The  passions  are  the  same  ;  the  same  in 
their  experience,  the  same  in  their  results.  Take  the 
woman  that  is  within  the  queen,  and  her  love,  in  its 
happiness  or  misery,  differs  in  nothing  from  that  of  the 
girl  that  waits  upon  her  waiting-woman.  The  rapture 
of  the  girl  is,  of  the  two,  greater  than  hers,  because  it 
is  more  natural ;  and  the  sadness  of  a  queen  afflicted 
in  her  real  woman's  heart,  would  find  no  magic  in  the 
sceptre  to  heal  the  wound.  Parents  on  the  throne  have 
no  more  joy  in  their  children  than  parents  in  any  station, 
who  can  meet  the  demand  that  health,  knowledge,  and 
virtue  make  for  domestic  peace.  The  rich  man's  pain 
is  not  less  acute  than  the  poor  man's,  and  remedies 
are  not  likely  to  find  it  as  easily  removable. 

The  deep  tragic  sorrows  that  stir  the  soul,  that 
darken  the  breast,  that  cloud  the  sun,  and  cover  up  the 
world  in  shroud,  though  different  in  form,  are  of  equal 
force  in  the  extremes  of  condition.  The  great  lady 
does  not  weep  with  a  more  hopeless  spirit,  when  she 
hears  that  her  gallant  lord  has  fallen  in  battle,  than 
does  the  poor  young  wife  for  her  soldier-spouse  ;  and 


262  THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

the  proud  owners  of  a  castle  do  not  bend  in  more  over- 
whelmed prostration,  when  the  son  of  their  affections 
and  the  heir  of  their  splendor  is  taken  to  his  narrow 
house,  than  do  the  lowly  couple  of  a  cottage,  when 
the  green  sod  is  laid  upon  what  remains  of  him  that  was 
the  light  of  their  hearts,  the  pride  of  their  life,  the  staff 
of  their  age,  their  handsome  and  their  stalwart  boy. 
All  that  makes  the  essence  of  life  is  equal ;  and  the 
proof,  if  any  were  required,  may  be  put  into  one  short 
sentence  :  The  grief  or  the  enjoyment  that  reaches  life, 
makes  nothing  of  station ;  and  in  the  full  experience 
of  that  grief  or  enjoyment,  no  one  is  conscious  of 
station. 

But  if  it  were  not  even  so,  yet  complaint  against  life 
would  be  against  wisdom,  against  virtue,  against  re- 
ligion. Where  is  the  wisdom  of  that  man  who  murmurs 
at  that  which  he  could  not  avoid  or  could  not  have 
changed  ?  Where  is  the  virtue  of  that  man  on  whom 
blessings  are  showered  in  vain,  and  who  has  nothing  but 
repining  to  return  for  goodness  ?  Where  is  the  virtue  of 
that  man,  who  is  ever  at  secret  variance  with  himself,  his 
condition,  his  fellows,  and  his  Maker,  —  who  is  ever  say- 
ing, in  his  bosom's  council-chamber,  into  which  he  sum- 
mons his  Creator,  —  Why  hast  thou  thus  dealt  with  me  ? 
Where  is  that  man's  piety,  who,  buried  in  the  dungeon 
of  his  dark  memory,  lives  amidst  the  ghosts  of  his  cares, 


THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE.  263 

and  writes  lamentations  in  the  ashes  of  his  burned-out 
pleasures  ?  Who  cannot  get  to  the  broad  universe  around 
him,  range  in  the  liberty  of  nature,  catch  the  gales 
that  sport  with  the  waters  and  the  woods,  and  rejoice 
in  the  great  and  good  Father  who  made  all  things  so 
fair  1  Where  is  the  piety  of  that  man,  to  whom  the 
instructions  of  the  gospel,  and  the  example  of  Christ, 
and  the  magnificence  of  creation,  and  the  lessons  of 
experience,  appeal  without  success  and  without  impres- 
sion ;  and  who,  despite  of  forbearing  mercy  and  patient 
expostulation,  is  still  with  the  splenetic  prophet  in  his 
thoughts,  and  in  these  rebellious  thoughts  continues  to 
reiterate,  "  It  is  better  for  me  to  die  than  to  live  ?  " 

There  are  those  who  say  that  they  have  lost  all  in- 
terest in  life.  It  is  to  them,  and  not  to  life,  that  poverty 
comes  ;  for  life  is  ever  rich  in  interest.  Life  is  rich  for 
the  senses.  Every  where  we  see  sights  and  hear 
sounds  that  give  pleasure.  The  field,  the  tree,  the 
brook,  the  bird,  which  the  most  barren  country  is  not 
without,  are  things  to  stir  the  heart  that  is  not  dead  to 
natural  sensibility.  Even  from  the  filthiest  city  lane, 
we  can  turn  our  gaze  upward,  and  there  we  have  the 
sublime  and  overhanging  sky.  But  in  that  filthiest 
lane  there  will  ever  be  objects  within  stretch  of  hand, 
that  excel  in  deep  interest  that  arched  sky,  with  the 
beauty  of  its  starlight  or  the  glory  of  its  sun.  Take 


264  THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

a  ragged  child  that  sweeps  the  crossing,  clean  his  face, 
gaze  into  his  eyes,  and  there,  soiled  and  neglected 
though  it  is,  you  will  have  the  image  of  Him,  who 
kindled  the  sun,  who  spread  abroad  the  stars,  who 
built  up  the  sky. 

Life  is  rich  for  the  affections.  This  is  wealth  that 
increases  with  its  use.  It  is  a  strength  that  mounts 
higher  and  higher,  which  at  every  advance  of  eleva- 
tion takes  a  wider  sweep,  and  warms  as  it  widens. 
The  love  of  the  child  reaches  to  the  parent ;  it  spreads 
to  brothers,  sisters,  and  companions.  But  while  the 
parent's  love  to  the  child  is  such  as  child  never  can 
return,  it  is  a  love  that  does  not  exhaust  itself  in  the 
child  ;  it  spreads  from  family  to  friend,  from  friends  to 
mankind,  and  from  the  household  hearth  to  the  infinite 
and  eternal  heights  of  heaven. 

Life  is  rich  for  the  moral  sentiments.  There  are 
mysteries  and  complexities  of  character ;  there  are 
meanings  of  events  ;  there  are  indications  of  coming 
results ;  there  are  the  effects  of  the  Past  in  the  Present, 
and  in  the  Present  also  the  causes  of  the  Future  ;  there 
are  the  workings  of  Humanity  in  History  ;  there  are  the 
foreshowings  of  Providence  in  Prophecy  ;  and  these 
can  stimulate  all  that  is  meditative  and  profound  within 
us.  Withal,  we  have  the  excitement  of  theories, 
plans,  speculations,  efforts,  hopes,  ideas,  achievements, 


THE   WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

that  pant,  and  speak,  and  act,  with  the  exhilaration  of 
passion,  eloquence,  zeal,  in  devotion,  imagination,  and 
doing. 

Life  has  affecting  interest  for  sympathy.  We  live 
in  the  midst  of  the  dying.  We  laugh  in  the  midst  of 
the  despairing.  Be  where  life  has  least  to  suffer,  and 
in  any  space  which  holds  a  dense  population,  we  can 
scarcely  take  many  paces  without  passing  an  afflicted 
heart.  Say  nothing  on  the  great  wrongs  of  the  world  ; 
wrongs  so  huge  as  to  defy  expression,  yet  so  common 
as  not  to  provoke  remark,  every  dwelling  has  its  skele- 
ton, every  spirit  has  its  woe,  every  unwritten  life  has 
incidents  which  the  most  intimate  cannot  interpret ; 
it  has  memories  of  trouble  which  the  kindest  cannot 
feel. 

If  a  man  has  clear  views  of  God  and  of  his  Provi- 
dence, if  he  has  a  trustful  and  patient  spirit,  he  will  be 
grateful  for  his  enjoyments,  and  he  will  meekly  bear 
his  griefs.  He  will  try  to  extract  from  his  circum- 
stances all  the  good  which  they  yield  him  ;  and  he  will 
not  darken  his  position  with  imaginary  calamities. 
Experience  will  convince  him  that  he  might  be  more 
unhappy,  and  humility  will  suggest  that  he  has,  on  the 
whole,  more  pleasure  than  he  merits.  In  the  worst 
trials,  faith  will  teach  him  that  earth  is  not  his  rest, 
that  his  afflictions  here,  light  and  enduring  but  for  a 


266  THE  WEARINESS    OF    LIFE. 

moment,  working  for  him  an  eternal  weight  of  glory,  are 
but  as  hasty  April  showers,  that  usher  in  an  everlasting 
summer.  Let  him  be  benevolently  and  usefully  active  ; 
let  him  not  be  indifferent  or  indolent ;  let  him  be  inter- 
ested in  all  around  him,  in  his  family,  his  neighbors, 
the  world  ;  let  him  have  the  goodness  of  social  affection 
and  the  zeal  of  public  principle  ;  let  him  be  thus  a 
benefactor  to  his  brethren,  and  he  will  be  preeminently 
a  benefactor  to  himself.  If  he  is  open  to  the  tribulation 
of  others,  he  will  think  less  upon  his  own  grievances  ; 
and  every  step  that  leads  him  to  console  real  sorrows, 
will  bear  him  away  from  fancied  ones. 

The  day  of  life  spent  in  honest  and  benevolent 
labor,  comes  in  hope  to  an  evening  calm  and  lovely  ; 
and  though  the  sun  declines,  the  shadows  that  he  leaves 
behind,  are  only  to  curtain  the  spirit  into  rest.  Earth, 
and  all  that  it  inherits,  is  to  each  of  us  but  as  the  gourd 
of  Jonah.  Happy,  happy  for  each,  if,  at  the  close  of 
his  journey,  he  can  say,  not  in  a  querulous  discontent, 
but  in  believing  trust,  "  It  is  better  for  me  to  die  than 
to  live  ; "  or  rather,  if  he  can  say  in  the  tranquil  joy- 
fulness  of  old  Simeon,  "  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy 
servant  depart  in  peace." 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE. 


1  COR.  xiii.  12. 

NOW   WE   SEE   THROUGH   A   GLASS    DARKLY. 

WE  see  through  a  glass  darkly,  we  see  darkly,  but 
we  see.  We  do  not  see  clearly  to  a  great  distance,  but 
near  at  hand,  we  may  discern  our  way  with  sufficient 
distinctness  to  guide  our  feet  in  the  paths  of  peace. 
Some  person  has  said,  that  were  mysteiy  begins  religion 
ends.  This  is  a  pointed  sentence,  but  it  is  a  pointed 
falsehood.  Mystery,  in  fact,  begins  not  with  religion 
merely,  —  it  begins  with  life  ;  and  it  will  not  end,  but 
with  religion  and  with  life.  And  reason  goes  hand  in 
hand  with  mystery.  The  light  of  reason  ever  gleams 
on  the  margin  of  an  unmeasured  and  immeasurable 
ocean  of  mystery  ;  and  however  far  we  push  our  dis- 
coveries, the  line  of  light  only  moves  on,  and  has 
infinite  and  unfathomable  darkness  beyond  it.  Reason 
and  mystery  are  equally  conditions  of  a  spiritual,  but 
limited  existence,  and  indeed,  without  reason,  there 
could  be  neither  mystery  nor  religion. 


268  MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE. 

Efforts  have  been  made  to  exalt  revelation  on  the 
ruins  of  reason,  but  these  efforts  are  perilous  to  all 
religion  ;  for  if  there  can  be  no  confidence  in  reason, 
there  is  no  foundation  for  faith.  If  man  has  not  within 
him  a  light  of  primitive  truth,  a  faculty  of  spiritual 
apprehension,  to  what  could  a  revelation  be  made  ? 
What  could .  heaven  appeal  to  in  this  dumb,  dark 
silence  ?  What  could  its  prodigies  arouse  ?  What 
could  its  voice  awaken  ?  In  vain  the  dead  might  start 
from  their  graves,  in  vain  might  the  mountains  tremble, 
and  the  ocean  yawn  ;  it  would  be  as  fruitless  of  spiritual 
import  where  there  was  no  spiritual  faculty,  as  the 
shriekings  of  Baal's  ministers  were  upon  their  God  on 
the  summit  of  Mount  Carmel. 

But  every  exertion  understaken  for  the  religious 
exaltation  of  man,  supposes  faculties  in  him  which  can 
be  spiritually  influenced  ;  and  if  it  were  not  so,  missions 
to  the  idolater  or  the  savage  would  be  the  most  absurd 
of  speculations ;  indeed,  if  it  were  not  so,  there  would 
be  none  to  undertake  the  missions,  and  none  even  to 
conceive  them.  If  man  had  not  that  spiritual  nature, 
of  which  reason  is  the  life,  what  spiritual  idea  could  be 
revealed  to  him  ?  Could  the  idea  of  a  God  be  com- 
municated, if  the  soul  had  not  in  itself  the  elements  of 
that  idea  ?  Could  the  idea  of  immortality,  or  of  duty  ? 
Surely  not.  If  any  should  suppose  they  could,  why 


MYSTERY  IN  KELIG1ON  AND  IN  LIFE.  269 

then  not  try  to  impress  them  on  inferior  creatures  ? 
Man  therefore  may  be  the  subject  of  revelation,  not  to 
make  him  a  religious  being,  but  because  he  is  a, 
religious  being. 

Before  we  can  infer  the  fact  of  a  revelation,  we 
infer  the  existence  of  a  God  ;  for  it  is  plain  that^  to 
conceive  of  a  revelation  from  God,  it  is  implied  that  we 
conceive  of  a  God  from  whom  the  revelation  comes. 
We  infer,  also,  in  some  degree,  the  moral  perfection  of 
God's  character;  for,  if  we  did  not  believe  God  supreme- 
ly wise,  his  revelation  would  not  secure  our  esteem, 
and  unless  we  believe  Him  supremely  good,  it  would 
not  have  our  trust.  Here,  now,  are  most  solemn  prin- 
ciples with  which  reason  must  deal  independently  ;  prin- 
ciples, which  in  the  order  of  logic  and  of  thought,  at  least, 
precede  revelation,  and  without  admitting  which,  there 
can  be  no  intelligent  apprehension  of  revelation. 

But  the  office  of  reason  does  not  cease  here.  When 
any  saying  or  document  assumes  the  claim  of  a  divine 
revelation,  reason  has  to  examine  the  evidence.  The 
evidence  is  either  historical  or  moral  ;  in  theological 
phraseology,  either  external  or  internal.  Reason  must 
judge  in  either  case.  No  other  judge  can  be  ;  for  the 
matter  under  consideration^  cannot  be  a  judge  for  itself. 
Reason  must  examine  the  external  evidence ;  must 
ascertain  whether  the  facts  averred,  natural  or  super- 


270  MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE. 

natural,  actually  occurred  ;  whether  the  testimony  ad- 
duced is  sufficient ;  whether,  if  the  facts  did  occur, 
they  adequately  sustain  the  doctrine  asserted.  You 
cannot  exclude  reason  from  the  domain  of  historical 
evidence  ;  neither  can  you  from  that  of  moral  evidence. 
An  intellectual  contradiction  cannot  come  from  God  ; 
and  reason  in  this  case  is  an  immediate  and  a  final 
authority.  All  admit  this.  Men  may  dispute  whether 
a  proposition  is  an  intellectual  contradiction  ;  but  once 
being  so  determined,  there  is  no  discussion.  A  miracle, 
if  such  were  exhibited,  could  not  force  conviction  ; 
after  ten  thousand  miracles,  the  inherent  falsehood 
would  be  unchanged.  And  the  moral  is  subjected  to 
the  test  of  reason  as  well  as  the  intellectual. 

We  often  hear  it  advanced  in  favor  of  Christianity, 
that  its  doctrines  are  worthy  of  God.  Such  an  asser- 
tion assumes  that  we  have  some  knowledge  of  what  is, 
or  what  is  not,  worthy  of  God.  Whence  have  we  this 
knowledge  ?  From  revelation  ?  If  so,  we  cannot  use 
it  for  evidence  of  revelation.  If  it  can  be  fairly  used  as 
such,  then  is  it  independent  of  revelation.  When  we 
say,  then,  of  doctrines,  that  they  are  worthy  of  God, 
we  place  confidence  in  the  rectitude  of  our  moral 
sense.  We  hold  that  it  has  a  true  relation  to  God,  and 
has  a  true  perception  of  what  is  contrary  to  his  excel- 
lence, or  in  accordance  with  it.  There  may,  then,  be 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE.  27  1 

a  moral  contradiction  as  well  as  an  intellectual  one, 
and  with  the  same  influence  upon  conviction.  There 
must  be  first  principles  of  right  as  well  as  of  truth,  and 
we  must  be  capable  of  knowing  them.  Nor  can  we 
suppose  them  changed  when  applied  to  the  character 
or  actions  of  God  ;  else  we  could  not  understand  what 
was  worthy  of  him  or  otherwise,  and  then  all  our 
sayings  on  the  point  were  without  meaning  and  without 
value.  A  doctrine  which  should  shock  our  moral 
sense  would,  on  these  grounds,  be  rejected,  whatever 
authority  it  claimed.  A  contradiction  to  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  right  would  involve  a  self-evident  condem- 
nation, however  boldly  it  was  announced  from  God  ;  it 
would  bear  in  its  own  statement  the  spirit  of  a  lie ;  and 
no  mystery  could  shield  it,  and  no  miracle  uphold  it. 

Granting  the  revelation  to  be  recorded  in  written 
documents,  and  these  documents  authenticated,  reason 
then  must  be  exercised  in  their  interpretation.  What 
was  their  character,  was  the  question  hitherto  ;  what  is 
their  import,  is  the  question  now.  This  or  the  other  must 
be  resolved  by  examination.  I  do  not  say  by  whom,  or 
by  how  many,  whether  by  councils  or  individuals ;  but, 
by  whomsoever  it  is  done,  the  process  is  intellectual ;  it 
is  a  work  of  human  reason.  Whatever  laws  pertain  to 
the  interpretation  of  secular  records,  are  those  which 
equally  pertain  to  the  interpretation  of  sacred  docu- 


272  MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE. 

ments.  To  both  we  must  apply  the  analysis  of  antiquity, 
the  analogies  of  history,  the  results  of  criticism. 

Nor  do  the  primitive  laws  of  intellect  and  conscience, 
by  which  we  test  the  character  of  an  assumed  reve- 
lation, cease  to  be  operative  when  we  come  to  test  the 
meaning  of  an  admitted  one.  If  an  assertion  contra- 
dict the  plain  dictates  of  reason,  that  is  no  meaning 
from  the  mind  of  God.  If  an  assertion  contradict  the 
clear  voice  of  conscience,  that  can  be  no  meaning  from 
the  mind  of  God.  The  admission  of  a  revelation  does 
not  abrogate  the  laws  of  thought  or  duty,  for  they 
are  immutable ;  and  a  true  revelation  must  tend  to 
exalt,  not  to  subvert  them.  Moreover,  they  are  the 
only  means  which  men  possess  by  which  to  judge 
interpretation.  Few  have  much  acquaintance  with 
history ;  fewer  still  can  interrogate  antiquity ;  and  the 
number  is  considerably  small,  indeed,  who  are  adepts 
in  the  philosophy  of  criticism  ;  but  all,  if  they  will  be 
just  to  them,  have  the  moral  sense,  and  common  sense. 

If  a  doctrine,  then,  is  proposed  to  an  unlearned  but 
sound  minded  man  as  a  doctrine  sustained  by  the  word 
of  God,  is  he  not  justified  in  bringing  it  to  the  test  of 
his  reason  ?  Must  he  not  be  aware  that  his  reason 
certainly  is  from  God,  and  given  to  him  for  his  highest 
destiny  ?  Must  he  not  be  aware  that,  in  fundamental 
principles,  it  is  the  same  in  all  nations  and  in  every 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE.  273 

age,  however  speech  may  vary  and  customs  may 
change  ?  Must  he  not  have  the  like  strong  confidence 
in  his  conscience  ?  If  the  doctrine  be  against  these, 
he  has  authority  to  pronounce  it  false.  If  an  inter- 
pretation is  advanced  which  he  cannot  refute,  may  he 
not  consistently  and  humbly  answer  :  "  I  am  not  skilled 
in  dialects,  I  am  not  intimate  with  history,  remoter 
times  I  have  never  explored,  with  philosophy  I  am 
unacquainted  ;  but  by  the  light  which  the  Creator  has 
bestowed  on  every  man  whom  he  sends  into  the  world, 
your  saying  appears  to  me  a  falsehood,  and  I  do  not 
believe  that  a  God  of  truth  has  revealed  it."  What 
other  test  than  this  have  men  in  general  ?  And  if 
you  deprive  them  of  it,  nearly  the  whole  mass  must 
be  given  over  to  a  blind  submission.  Will  it  be  ob- 
jected that  reason  is  here  made  ultimate  and  supreme  ? 
It  may  be  so  ;  it  must  be  so.  Hold  what  belief  we 
will ;  take  what  form  of  religion  we  choose  ;  no  matter 
what  ideas  we  have  on  the  standard  of  doctrine,  on  the 
nature  or  the  extent  of  individual  judgment  or  church 
authority  ;  no  matter  what  we  conceive  to  be  the  ap- 
pointed mode  of  dispensing  truth  or  ending  controver- 
sies ;  it  does  not  signify  whether  on  these  subjects  we 
maintain  the  widest  freedom  or  the  most  complete 
obedience  ;  so  long  as  we  maintain  any  faith  as  intelli- 
gent beings,  the  basis  on  which  we  rest  it  all  is  reason. 
18 


274  MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE. 

This  is  a  thing  not  of  our  power,  or  our  choice  ;  it  is 
a  necessity  of  our  creation,  —  a  necessity,  indeed,  in  the 
constitution  of  the  spiritual  universe. 

And  from  what  stage  in  the  course  that  I  have 
sketched  will  you  exclude  reason  ?  Will  you  exclude 
it  from  finding  out  the  meanings  of  the  Book  ?  If  a 
Protestant,  you  then  violate  the  first  principles  of  your 
Protestantism ;  or  you  must  deny  that  the  process  of 
interpretation  is  in  any  sense  a  work  of  reason.  If  a 
Catholic,  you  have  no  means  to  prove  the  authority  of 
your  church,  which  you  hold  to  be  a  divine  institution, 
and  which  revelation  only  can  establish.  Will  you  ex- 
clude it  from  examining  the  evidence  by  which  the  Bible 
can  be  shown  to  contain  divine  communications  ?  Then 
you  take  away  the  foundation  of  revealed  religion 
altogether.  Will  you  exclude  it  from  our  convictions 
concerning  the  existence  and  character  of  God  ?  Then 
you  destroy  all  religion,  whether  natural  or  revealed, 
whether  innate  or  derived,  whether  intuitive  or  his- 
torical. 

But,  if  you  will  do  none  of  these  things,  I  claim, 
then,  no  more  for  reason  than  you  must  allow  ;  I  claim 
only  for  reason,  that  which  cannot  be  denied  without  a 
denial,  virtually,  of  all  truth,  all  certainty;  without  a  de- 
nial, in  fact,  which  would  cast  us,  at  once,  on  the  dark, 
desolate,  trackless,  and  boundless  ocean  of  universal 
scepticism. 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE.  275 

Do  we  then  put  away  mystery  from  religion  ?  By 
no  means.  Religion,  as  I  have  said,  is  in  the  midst  of 
mystery.  Our  existence  is  in  the  midst  of  mystery. 
Mystery  is  omnipresent.  But  mystery  does  not  surely 
exclude  all  definite  knowledge  ;  nay,  it  is  by  means  of 
definite  knowledge,  even  that  we  think  of  mystery.  It  is 
by  limited  space,  that  we  apprehend  the  unlimited  ;  by 
time,  we  conceive  of  eternity  ;  by  a  consciousness  of 
dependent  being,  we  rise  to  an  idea  of  that  which  ip 
infinite  and  perfect.  We  do  not,  as  it  is  at  times  as- 
serted, by  this  mode  of  argument  bring  God  to  the  bar 
of  our  fallible  judgment,  and  try  his  word  by  the  dictates 
of  our  own  proud  will.  No  ;  most  certainly,  we  do  not. 
We  do  not  presume  to  know  all  that  belongs  to  God  : 
we  would  only  judge  what  claims  to  be  of  God,  by  the 
light  with  which  he  has  gifted  us.  By  what  we  under- 
stand of  God,  we  would  test  that  which  claims  his 
authority,  and  this  is  not  only  consistent  with  humility, 
but  it  is  commanded  by  duty. 

The  being  of  God  is  not  measurable,  but  it  is  intelli- 
gible ;  the  character  of  God  is  inscrutable,  but  it  is  not 
inconsistent.  It  were  impious  to  disbelieve  a  word 
of  God,  but  not  so  to  doubt  whether  when  men  insist 
on  it,  they  speak  this  word,  or  understand  it.  Con- 
vince me  that  what  is  written  is  this  word,  and  I  sub- 
mit, with  my  spirit  and  my  understanding ;  convince 


276  MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE. 

me  that  an  interpretation  is  this  word,  and  I  believe  ; 
and  of  necessity,  I  cannot  but  believe.  I  reject  no 
doctrine  because  it  involves  mystery.  Mysterious- 
ness  is  to  me,  in  itself,  no  objection  to  a  doctrine. 
I  reject  no  doctrine  for  want  of  plainness,  but  want 
of  proof. 

Mystery  is,  I  have  admitted,  a  necessary  element  in 
religion  ;  and  if  I  reject  religion  on  the  ground  of 
mystery,  on  the  same  ground  I  must  deny  all  exist- 
ence ;  I  must  deny  my  own  existence.  But  I  do  not 
accept  either  the  plea  of  mystery  or  that  of  intelligible- 
ness,  as  an  argument  for  truth.  A  proposition  may  be 
equally  false,  whether  it  be  hard  to  be  understood,  or 
easy.  I  do  not  reject  a  doctrine  because  I  cannot  fully 
comprehend  it,  but  in  that  which  I  may  have  knowledge, 
I  ask  for  evidence.  Herein,  I  obey  the  apostolic  in- 
junction, —  "  Try  the  spirits  whether  they  are  of  God, 
because  many  false  prophets  are  gone  out  into  the 
world."  For  this  reason,  he  tells  the  disciples  to  "  be- 
lieve not  every  spirit."  What  spirit,  then,  they  would 
receive,  that  spirit  they  must  try,  and  this  trial  must 
decide  on  its  character,  whether  it  was,  or  was  not,  of 
God. 

The  maintenance  of  reason,  is,  therefore,  no  denial 
of  mystery.  In  every  object  which  has  relation  to 
religious  ideas  or  religious  sentiments  there  is  mystery. 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE.  277 

There  is  mystery  in  God.  Who  can  find  out  the  Al- 
mighty to  perfection  ?  Mysterious  with  infinite  sacred- 
ness  is  that  awful  Being,  from  whom  all  things  have 
sprung ;  mysterious  in  his  omnipotence,  with  which 
volition  is  creation,  and  creation  is  boundless  ;  myste- 
rious in  his  wisdom,  which  has  designed  and  accom- 
plished the  grand  economy  of  being,  which  has  ad- 
justed all  its  contrivances  for  the  security  of  harmony 
and  happiness,  which  has  given  a  purpose  to  every 
atom  of  matter  and  to  every  pulse  of  life,  and  which 
permits  no  atom  and  no  pulse  to  fail  in  the  purpose 
whereunto  it  is  appointed  ;  mysterious  in  his  goodness, 
which  ever  communicates  and  never  needs  to  receive, 
which  is  gentle  without  weakness,  and  merciful  without 
emotion  ;  mysterious  in  his  essence,  shrouded  in  dark- 
ness, silent  and  unapproachable  ;  every  where  present, 
yet  having  no  place  ;  eternal  in  duration,  yet  related  to 
no  time. 

There  is  mystery  in  the  universe.  There  is  mystery 
in  its  age.  What  is  the  life  of  man  amidst  those  old 
worlds  ?  When  did  they  begin  to  exist  ?  What 
changes  have  they  passed  through  ?  What  convul- 
sions and  revolutions  have  occurred  in  the  empires  of 
space  ?  There  is  mystery  in  their  vastness.  Already 
the  certain  discoveries  of  science  have  outrun  the 
dreams  of  fancy,  and  reason  walks  securely  over  fields 


278  MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE. 

of  immensity,  where  imagination  grows  feeble  and 
bewildered.  But,  even  beyond  the  ken  of  reason,  what 
unknown  labyrinths,  what  regions  of  existence  and  of 
light,  what  untravelled  deserts  in  the  kingdoms  of  our 
God.  There  is  mystery  in  the  laws  of  the  universe. 
How  are  worlds  held  to  their  centres  ?  Whence 
their  motion  ?  Whence  their  immutable  regularity  ? 
There  is  mystery  in  the  construction  of  the  universe. 
We  know  not  of  it ;  it  is  hidden  from  us.  We  do  not 
understand  a  blade  of  grass,  the  leaf  of  a  flower,  and 
the  unseen  millions  that  live  on  it.  We  need  not  go 
widely  into  space  for  things  beyond  our  knowledge  ; 
the  globe  on  which  we  tread  suffices.  A  grain  of 
sand,  a  gleam  of  fire,  a  breath  of  air,  mocks  our  intelli- 
gence, and  defies  our  wisdom.  Afar  off,  there  are 
wilds  unknown,  and  near  us  are  things  inscrutable. 
We  live  in  the  midst  of  infinite  existence,  and  widely 
as  we  can  see,  and  vastly  as  we  have  discovered,  we 
have  but  crossed  the  threshold,  we  have  but  entered 
the  vestibule  of  the  Creator's  temple.  In  this  temple 
there  is  an  everlasting  worship  of  life,  an  anthem  of 
many  choruses,  a  hymn  of  incense  that  goes  up  for- 
ever. 

The  universe  is  full  of  world-dramas.  If  this  earth, 
where  man  abides,  has  had  such  a  history,  if  it 
has  had  such  strange  vicissitudes,  what  marvels  may 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE.  279 

belong  to  every  spot  in  illuminated  space  !  Faintly 
can  we  dream  of  the  life  that  animates  the  systems  of 
creation,  the  happiness  that  blesses  them,  and  the 
beauty  that  adorns  them  !  And  this  sublime  myste- 
riousness  does  not  fall  barren  on  us,  if  we  have  devout 
hearts.  It  humbles,  while  it  exalts  us  ;  and,  while  in 
the  sense  of  our  littleness,  we  bow  our  heads  to  the 
dust,  with  solemn  adoration,  also,  we  lift  our  souls  to 
God.  From  darkness  have  all  these  come  at  the  bid- 
ding of  Almighty  will  ;  they  exist  by  Almighty  power  ; 
they  manifest  Almighty  goodness ;  they  are  the  spheres 
of  Almighty  purposes  ;  and  when  we  gaze  upon  this 
fair  creation,  in  its  bounty  around  our  feet,  and  in  its 
splendor  above  our  heads,  with  the  Psalmist  we  ex- 
claim, "  O  Lord  how  manifold  are  thy  works,  in  wis- 
dom thou  hast  made  them  all !  " 

When,  therefore,  we  consider  the  earth,  which  is  but 
God's  footstool,  and  the  heavens,  which  are  but  the 
work  of  his  fingers,  we  ask,  What  is  man,  that  God  is 
mindful  of  him,  and  the  son  of  man,  that  God  should 
visit  him  ?  But  man  is  greater  than  the  earth,  and 
greater  than  the  heavens  ;  and  man,  too,  is  more  a 
mystery  than  the  earth,  and  more  a  mystery  than  the 
heavens.  Man  is  a  mystery  in  the  marvellous  forma- 
tion of  his  body  ;  but,  more  profoundly,  he  is  a  mys- 
tery in  the  union  of  that  body  with  a  soul.  We  know 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE. 

this  bond,  and  we  feel  it,  but  we  cannot  explain  it. 
There  is  that  within  us  which  is  active,  joined  to  that 
which  is  inert ;  there  is  that  within  us  which  can  think, 
joined  to  that  which,  by  its  own  nature,  is  insensi- 
ble ;  and  that  whose  proper  tendency  is  dissolution 
and  division,  is  joined  to  that  whose  very  essence  is 
unity. 

Man  is  a  mystery  in  the  union  he  exhibits  of  progress 
and  decay  in  his  earthly  life.  "  I  die  daily,"  says  the 
apostle.  There  is  a  sense  in  which  we  live  daily,  in 
which  we  die  daily.  There  is  physical  progression, 
there  is  physical  decay  ;  for  one  period  a  daily  physi- 
cal life,  for  another  a  daily  physical  death.  Man 
grows  slowly  from  weakness  to  independence.  Infancy 
strengthens  into  childhood  ;  childhood  bounds  into 
youth ;  youth  sobers  into  manhood ;  manhood  softens 
into  age ;  age  totters  to  its  second  cradle,  and  in  that  it 
slumbers  to  the  tomb.  The  life  of  sensation  grows 
into  that  of  wonder  ;  then  come  hope  and  passion ; 
then  care  and  labor ;  last  of  all,  exhausted  experience, 
and  a  wish  for  rest.  Every  day  in  the  first  portion  of 
our  course  fastens  a  tie  to  earth  ;  and  in  the  latter 
portion  of  it  every  day  loosens  one.  For  a  time,  the 
circle  of  our  relationships  in  the  world  enlarges ;  then 
comes  a  period,  when  this  is  reversed,  and  the  circle  is 
contracted,  our  friends  pass  from  the  scene,  our  cotem- 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE.  281 

poraries  disappear ;  we  begin  literally  to  feel  that  earth 
is  no  longer  our  proper  place ;  our  life  is  no  longer  of 
it ;  it  has  ceased  to  be  our  dwelling ;  and  we  gaze 
through  hope  and  tears  for  habitations  which  are  eter- 
nal in  the  heavens. 

Yet,  with  all  this  bodily  and  social  decay,  there  may 
be  a  moral  growth  of  mind.  The  passions  subside, 
and  meditation  may  take  the  place  of  impulse  ;  specu- 
lation may  give  way  to  knowledge,  and  wisdom 
succeed  to  both.  Though  our  bodies  waste,  and  even 
our  intellectual  energy  decay,  the  spiritual  man  may  be 
renewed,  the  sight  of  the  soul  may  be  more  clear,  and 
the  voice  of  conscience  more  distinct  ;  the  inward 
nature  is  then  governed  by  ideas,  rather  than  instincts ; 
its  inspiration  is  from  faith  rather  than  desire ;  and  its 
visions  are  formed  in  the  light  of  hope,  rather  than  in 
the  mists  of  pleasure. 

Man  is  a  mystery  in  his  grandeur  and  his  baseness. 
The  intellectual  grandeur  of  man  is  evidenced  in  an 
ever-productive  genius,  which  seems  quickened  from 
the  creativeness  of  God ;  the  moral  grandeur  of  man 
has  been  evidenced  in  a  magnitude  of  worth  which 
seemed  replenished  from  the  heart  of  God's  grace. 
But  notwithstanding  this  intellectual  and  this  moral 
grandeur,  great  has  been  human  folly,  and  great  has 
been  human  guilt.  Man  has  bent  to  the  most  insane 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE. 

absurdities  ;  he  has  given  himself  to  the  grossest 
errors ;  he  has  taken  the  most  wretched  chimeras  for 
truth,  and  the  basest  idolatries  for  religion.  He,  too, 
who  has  been  capable  of  such  godlike  generosity,  has 
been  most  vilely  selfish  ;  he  who  has  shown  the  mercy 
of  heaven,  has  exhibited  the  malignity  of  hell ;  and  he 
who  has  risen  to  the  loftiest  sentiments,  has  also  sunk 
to  the  worst  of  passions.  Humanity  has  united,  in 
most  marvellous  contradiction,  the  majesty  of  reason 
and  the  supremacy  of  conscience  with  the  vanity  of 
desire  and  the  frailty  of  will. 

If  man  be  thus  a  mystery  in  his  present  life,  much 
more  he  is  a  mystery  in  death,  and  in  the  immortality 
to  which  death  translates  him.  O  what  a  veil  conceals 
that  passage  from  our  senses.  Death  is  certain,  and  it 
is  silent.  We  walk  upon  a  grave,  and  the  clay  of 
mouldered  generations  on  which  we  tread  has  neither 
sound  nor  voice.  Our  hearts  are  now  active  with 
many  desires  ;  ere  long,  their  chords  will  melt  into 
ashes.  We  enter  a  festive  room,  bridal,  or  baptismal ; 
faces  are  glad,  and  lights  are  brilliant ;  but  soon  these 
faces  will  vanish  from  earth,  even  as  the  lights  die 
upon  the  finished  banquet. 

The  sublimest  spectacle  which  the  world  offers,  are 
men  in  their  thousands  and  their  might.  Grand, 
though  with  melancholy  grandeur,  is  an  army  with 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE.  28f 

banners,  an  array  of  martial  manhood  in  its  courag 
and  its  prime,  treading  to  the  note  that  pierces  the  ear, 
and  that  swells  the  heart ;  yet,  in  the  most  potent  host 
which  the  sun  ever  saw  collected,  he  would  not  have 
accomplished  many  revolutions,  when  there  would  be 
few  ears  to  listen  and  few  hearts  to  bound. 

Death  is  silent.  In  the  city,  while  men  are  brawling 
and  busy  in  the  crowded  street,  death  is  entering  the 
secret  chambers,  and  friends  sit  pallid  by  the  couches 
of  the  breathless,  or  love  is  drinking  in  the  sigh  which 
bears  the  soul  to  heaven.  Death  is  silent ;  those  whose 
very  looks  spoke  to  us  in  life,  pass  from  our  sight  as 
the  shadow  from  the  dial,  and  the  music  of  their  words 
become  sad  echoes  in  the  distance  of  our  memory. 
Death  is  silent.  Living  hatred  thunders  in  the  strife  of 
war,  but  when  the  contest  is  over,  Death,  grim  and 
speechless,  is  monarch  of  the  field.  Death  is  silent. 
Tempests  shriek  madly  upon  ocean,  and  many  are  they 
who  sink  with  this  requiem  into  their  fathomless  grave ; 
but  from  the  depths  of  that  sublime  sepulchre,  no  sound 
comes  back  to  tell  of  those  who  perished.  Death  is 
silent,  yet  not  so  entirely;  silent  it  is  to  the  ear,  but 
not  always  to  the  heart ;  our  brethren  are  still  bound  to 
us,  and  though  dead,  they  have  not  ceased  to  be. 
There  is  much  to  be  felt  and  learned  where  they  rest. 

Humility    has    instruction   from    the    proud    man's 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE. 

monument,  and  content  a  lesson  from  the  vanity  that 
overlies  his  clay.  There  is  pathos  in  the  solitude 
where  the  stranger  sleeps ;  there  is  mute  eloquence  on 
his  unlettered  grave  ;  there  is  beauty  in  the  poor  man's 
epitaph,  inscribed  honestly  by  affection ;  there  is  sub- 
limity in  the  rude  sculpture  of  the  peasant's  tomb, 
when  it  is  the  effort  to  symbolize  an  immortal  faith. 
And  it  is  such  faith  which  takes  terror  from  the  power 
of  death,  and  despair  from  the  silence  of  the  grave. 
There  is  that  in  us  which  is  not  all  clay.  That  which 
belongs  to  earth,  must  go  to  earth ;  but  when  earth 
claims  and  gets  back  its  atoms,  God  gathers  up  and 
calls  home  his  spirits. 

More  prolific  is  the  Creative  Power  in  minds  than  in 
matter,  and  the  universe  is  more  filled  with  souls  than 
with  worlds.  Within  every  human  form  there  is  an 
existence  destined  for  eternal  relations  and  eternal 
progress.  While  my  senses  rest  upon  the  mortal,  my 
faith  tells  me  of  the  immortal.  If  I  lean  over  the 
couch  of  my  last  earthly  friend,  I  may  weep,  but 
I  will  not  despair  If  I  see  the  aged  fall  in  the  ripeness 
of  their  years,  and  the  young  cut  down  in  the  fullness 
of  their  prime,  I  shall  consider  the  difference  nothing 
in  the  birth  of  endless  being.  When  I  behold  the  man 
of  great  and  developed  powers  levelled  with  the  least 
of  his  brethren,  the  speculation  of  a  godlike  reason 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE.  285 

extinguished  in  the  eye,  the  ecstasy  of  a  sublime  ima- 
gination palsied  in  the  breast,  I  do  not  lose  my  confi- 
dence ;  I  am  persuaded  of  a  sphere  beyond  the  present, 
where  this  reason  may  seek  for  loftier  truth,  and  this 
imagination  steep  itself  in  diviner  beauty. 

And  this  persuasion  has  full  confirmation  in  Jesus, 
the  mystery;  but  yet  more,  the  miracle  of  humanity. 
The  miracle  of  humanity !  By  what  designation  more 
appropriate  shall  we  describe  the  Saviour  ?  He  that 
rose  upon  the  age  with  a  goodness  which  nothing  in  the 
age  inspired  ;  he  that  loved  with  the  fullness  and  the 
impartiality  of  Heaven,  when  souls  were  stern  and 
hearts  contracted ;  he  that  cared  only  for  the  sanctifi- 
cation  of  man's  spirit  where  others  cared  merely  for 
the  observance  of  the  letter  ;  he  that  spoke  as  none 
had  ever  spoken,  yet  whose  words  were  plain  to  child- 
hood ;  he  that  looked  on  guilt  with  deepest  abhorrence, 
yet  beheld  the  sinner  with  divine  compassion ;  he  that 
ever  lived  in  converse  with  the  unseen,  yet  walked 
among  his  brethren  in  all  gentle  and  affectionate 
offices ;  he  that  knew  the  secret  of  the  grave,  yet  cast 
no  shadow  on  the  cheerfulness  of  life  ;  he  that  had 
excellence  so  endearing  that  we  feel  him  to  be  our 
brother,  yet  so  perfect,  that  while  it  stimulates  our 
loftiest  exertions,  it  infinitely  and  forever  transcends 
them. 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE. 

Mystery !  we  need  not  ascend  above  the  skies,  or  go 
into  the  grave  for  mystery  !  The  world  of  human  life 
has  mysteries  impenetrable,  and  Divine  Providence 
sustains  an  agency  before  our  eyes  which  hourly 
rebukes  our  vain  sagacity.  Genius  walks  by  the  side 
of  the  witless ;  the  one  rejoices  in  the  splendor  of  a 
God ;  the  other  has  a  consciousness  that  merely  lives. 
Knowledge  with  a  memory  enriched  from  the  treasures 
of  the  past,  knowledge  glorious  with  the  spoils  of  time 
and  thought,  sojourns  beside  ignorance  that  gropes 
in  beamless  night.  Wealth,  that  has  no  stores  to 
hold  its  fullness,  is  but  a  span  from  poverty  that  has 
no  inheritance  but  the  grave.  Luxury  that  sickens 
with  its  pomp,  is  within  sight  of  destitution  which  grows 
pale  with  famine.  The  merry  peals  of  enraptured 
laughter  stir  the  same  atmosphere  which  sobs  with  the 
complainings  of  the  poor,  which  is  thickened  by  the 
tears  of  the  wretched.  Systems  of  existence  only  a 
little  apart,  there  are  every  where,  that  have  but  infre- 
quent interchange  and  but  imperfect  sympathy.  Still, 
though  they  have  many  points  of  difference,  they  have, 
also,  both  in  compensation  and  suffering,  much  in  com- 
mon. Death  comes  to  all ;  it  pulls  down  the  pride  of 
the  mighty,  and  it  gives  the  weary  rest.  The  ungiftecl 
miss  the  ecstasy  of  genius,  but  they  are  saved  from 
its  penalties.  The  unlearned  have  not  the  delights  of 


MYSTERY  IN  RELIGION  AND  IN  LIFE.  287 

knowledge,  neither  have  they  its  responsibilities.  In 
the  depths  of  toil  and  poverty,  are  the  kindred  of  home, 
the  light  of  its  affectionate  instincts,  the  intercourse  of 
its  blessed  sympathies. 

Much  that  is  most  exquisite  in  humanity,  is  independ- 
ent on  condition.  Enough  of  good  there  is  in  the  lowest 
estate  to  sweeten  life ;  enough  of  evil  in  the  highest  to 
check  presumption ;  enough  there  is  of  both  in  all 
estates,  to  bind  us  in  compassionate  brotherhood,  to 
teach  us  impressively  that  we  are  of  one  dying  and 
one  immortal  family.  These  inequalities,  so  striking 
in  our  temporary  pilgrimage,  arc  nothing  to  our  pro- 
grssive  soul ;  they  are  harsh  to  the  eye  of  sense,  but 
they  vanish  in  the  light  of  faith  ;  they  are  only  shadows 
in  this  our  dawn  of  being,  that  melt  away  in  the  clear 
day  of  eternity. 


UCSB  UBRTTCV 


A    000  602  040 


•cm 

Hi 


